What You Don't Know
by cainesorened
Summary: Never accept a barman's number without the guarantee that he'll accept your love. [Alternative Universe]
1. Chapter 1 - Beginning

I feel like I'm in a dupstep music video.

Lights glare down at me like a football pitch on acid. The music could be excused if it didn't sound like the result of a cat attacking a vinyl record, and judging from the revolting smell of body odour, we're all going to drown in sweat. There are no cute guys here either, and that sucks – not literally, which is the problem.

Let me just briefly confirm this: I am gay. It was a realization I came to at the age of fifteen, at a time when it was purely a nuisance since it was another thing to worry about on top of sneaking into the country. Since then, I've come to terms with it and have dated casually, however in six years I've never fallen in love. I'm not sure that it's something I want to do.

"Edilio!" The sharp yelling voice of my best friend, Mary Terrafino, breaks through the metaphorical wall I've built between me and grinding heterosexual couples. "You look like you're at a funeral. Come and dance with me!"

Mary knows full well that the last thing I wanted to do tonight was go clubbing. She knows I can't stand places like this or people like these but she dragged me here, regardless, claiming I needed a break. Needed a night away from being the rock of the family.

She's partly right. I am fucking tired of being the rock of the family. But I can't take a break from being it. You take the boulder out of the wall and it crumbles, everything smashing into the ground. Being away from my family for just one night does nothing to help either; I can practically see the wall shaking right now.

I live in a family of five – formerly six – illegal Honduran immigrants, hidden away in a caravan park where we seem to be on a constant, careless holiday, although our reality is far from it. My older brother, Alvaro, is twenty-three years of age and has serious mental issues but point-blank denies them and refuses to be diagnosed. He's a ticking bomb. Dealing with him whilst my two younger brothers hide outside our static caravan is challenging to say the least.

My younger brothers. At thirteen and fourteen, Aurelio and Guillermo are small and immature, as you'd expect two young boys to be, still affected by the death of my father, an extremely temperamental man. The same goes for my mother, who can't tear herself away from the thought that he is never coming back, and lives her life wishing she didn't have one.

They haven't seen what I have. I watched my father commit suicide. I watched the life being knocked out of his body at 120 kilometers an hour as he ran out onto the highway.

So here I am, Edilio Escobar, tying the knots that become continually undone, trying not to tie the knot around my own neck.

"Dil. Hey. Stay with me." Mary digs one bitten fingernail into my palm and I snap back to reality, back to the club where everyone is living. "Come on, dance with me." She starts jumping up and down to the rhythm, merrily bobbing her head. I try to replicate her moves on a smaller scale for the duration of this shitty song, before Astrid spots us and waves, clip-clopping over to us in her ankle-snapping heels.

Astrid Ellison, more commonly known as Astrid the Genius, or Sam Temple's girlfriend, is like a hawk. She has earned her nickname. Astrid goes against the golden blonde stereotype by applaudably acing every exam thrown at her. She's also studied me like a textbook, and she's very familiar, in that distant shrink-like way, with the expression I'm wearing on my face.

"Hey, Astrid," Mary grins, throwing her a hug full of shoulders and fingertips.

"Hey, you two," Astrid greets us, beginning to nod to the music. "Edilio, fancy getting me a drink?"

"I'd love to, Astrid, but I have no money." I shrug an embarrassed apology and look down at my battered sneakers.

"God, you think I'm inconsiderate." She laughs, flashing her immaculate teeth, and produces ten dollars from the pocket of her jeans that are practically a second skin. "Get us all something. I want a Malibu and coke."

"Lightweight," I tease, and she lifts one corner of her mouth.

"When I'm the only one that's not staggering out of this club, you can say that again."

"Sure." I roll my eyes jokingly. "Mary?"

"Just get me water," She requests, attempting a casual tone.

"Are you sure?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Yeah. I don't feel like getting drunk."

"Whatever you say," I shrug again and turn away, attempting to push my way through a sea of drunken college students.

"Escobar!" I hear a yell from someone I can't locate. "Over here, Mexico!"

This can only be one asshole: Quinn Gaither. The person who, although I have no idea why, everyone seems to either like or tolerate. When we had the misfortune of meeting each other, his first sentence to me was, I directly quote, "I thought South Americans weren't allowed to be gay?", and his nicknames for me usually ring two bells - one that screams "Racist!" and another that cries "Homophobe!"

Now, Quinn doesn't strictly know about my sexuality. He says he 'reads between the lines' and I would call bullshit on this, and everything he says, thinks, or does, but in this occasion he is right.

I inwardly groan and turn to face him. "You're getting drinks, right?" He sneers. "Buy me something that'll get me pissed enough to make me like you."

"I'm not in the mood for your shit, Quinn. Get your own drink or get the fuck away from me."

"Lighten up, Eh-deel-ee-oh," He over-emphasizes, attempting to mock my accent. "Get me something you drink with tacos." I shoot him as belittling a look as I can manage without him laughing at my lack of height, and push the bastard away with a palm on his chest. "Woah, Mexico, not cool. No homo."

"Oh, don't worry, Quinn. Hondurans don't go for insulting dicks."

"Tell me what kind of dicks you do go for -"

"In your fucking dreams!" I shout, my look escalating to a glare. I turn on my heel before I see or care about his reaction, and make my way toward the bar. I lean my elbows on the bar, attempting to block the sound of the music out, when someone else grabs my attention.

I turn to my left to see a tall, dark girl with cornrows and an extremely intimidating look on her face, bordering on murderous. She leans nonchalantly against the bar, propped up by two sharp elbows. Her mouth moves to form words as she looks at me, but I can't hear her, which means I have to get closer to her and actually socialize with this stranger.

People, so many of them. Why do they breed?

I shuffle along the bar, closer to the girl, who leans into me and whispers seductively, "you're cute as fuck. Give me your number."

I find myself stammering in response. "I, um, I d-don't -"

"Hey, Dekka," I hear another low, chuckling voice say. "Give the guy a break."

I turn half of my body around to see a smiling barman, one hand positioned on the bar, supporting his body weight, his shoulders hunched carefully forward. His grin is contagious and I start laughing – at myself? – as I discreetly admire his carelessly curly blond hair and the curve of his muscles. I could call my instant attraction to him simply casual, until he starts speaking again.

"Sorry about Dekka. Just consider yourself lucky that she hasn't killed you yet." His lips curl at the edges as I dig my nails into my palms and the girl, Dekka, raises a threatening eyebrow. "Anyway, what can I get you?"

_Your number, maybe?_ I force myself to look at the stock of drinks behind him, and attempt to remember what the girls requested. "Um, one glass of water, a Malibu and coke, and, er..." Between being distracted by Quinn and then by this possible couple, one-half frustratingly irresistible and one-half probably Satanic, I haven't yet considered what I'm drinking.

"I'm afraid we don't stock 'Er'." He teases, smiling with half of his mouth. "How about I get you a beer?"

_I said number. Not beer._ I agree and nod along with him anyway.

"I know what the kid wants," Dekka says, grinning like an animal about to tear my throat open with her bare teeth. "He wants you."

My eyes dart down to my hands as they twist into each other nervously. In the dark light I'm unsure if they see my tanned skin redden but the boy laughs it off regardless. He leans over the bar, his head stopping next to mine, his breath warm and unsurprisingly regular against my cheek. "Don't let her intimidate you," He murmurs as I force myself to gulp oxygen. "And even if she's right, it wouldn't be such a bad thing."

Holy shit.

He turns around to retrieve some bottles with labels I don't recognize, and starts quickly pouring drinks. He turns again to pick a seemingly specific beer from the fridge behind the bar and, and cracks the lid off then places it next to my slightly trembling hands. He looks up and gives me a preoccupied smile, then scribbles something on a Post-It note and hands it to me, exchanging it for Astrid's money.

"Keep the change," I blurt out as I convince my cheeks not to blush again, shove his note into my pocket casually and balance the three drinks between two hands. By the time I look back at him, he's already distracted by Dekka's quiet muttering. _Smooth, Edilio. Smooth as sandpaper. _I turn away with the drinks and force my way past a swarm of people that seem to have become more pissed since I saw them five minutes ago. Quinn is out of sight, thank God, and when I return to Astrid and Mary, Sam is with them, one arm thrown around his girlfriend. I pass the girls their drinks and nod to Sam in greeting. "Hey, brah," He nods back. He clinks the beer bottle in his other hand against mine as a sign to drink, and the three of us with anything alcoholic comply.

I throw my head back and let the bitter liquid slide down my throat, nearly choking and trying not to show my distaste. Apparently I fail, since Astrid smirks and shouts, "look who the lightweight is now."

"What took you so long by the bar, anyway?" Mary asks me as loudly as she can without the happy couple hearing.

I shrug, resisting a smile. "I ran into a couple of people."

"People you know?" I shake my head. "Oh," She says, her mouth rounding off the syllable. "People you want to know."

"Maybe."

The rest of the night is almost enjoyable, knowing the hot barman's note is crumpled safely in my pocket. By the time I've struggled to finish my beer, Sam presses another into my hand which is a bit nicer than the last. By the time I finish that beer, the flashing lights dim a little and the music is a bit softer and blurred, and I'm almost willing to dance to some kind of rhythm with Mary. She grabs me by the wrist and drags me to a relatively open space as I drink my third beer, which plasters a grin to my face. The fourth triggers Astrid to mutter worriedly in Sam's ear. Before I get to see the barman and his not-girlfriend again, Mary and Astrid are assisting me in my staggering state out of the bar, proving Astrid correct once again.

I wake up on Sam's familiar sofa, with Mary's hair flaming behind her rounded, spotless face in the mid-morning sunlight. She smiles gently, a welcoming greeting compared to the blinding headache that almost knocks me off the sofa. "Good morning," She says softly.

"Mm," I groan in reply.

"I've got you some tablets and water for your head." She nods toward the coffee table. "You never drink, Edilio. The barman must have been a charmer."

_You could say that_. I'm suddenly reminded of the Post-It in my pocket. I mumble thanks to my best friend and she takes this as a signal to leave. "We'll all be in the kitchen when you come around, Dil."

Once Mary leaves the room I stuff my hand into my pocket, smoothing the scrunched paper between my fingers before unfolding it. An unhastily written mobile phone number boldly sits on the paper. My eyes refocus as I stare and squint upon realizing that there's a word scribbled underneath it.

Not a word. A name. Roger.


	2. Chapter 2 - Insult

My mother once told me that her life is literally a nightmare.

Not only did that sentence make Astrid tut at the misuse of the word 'literally' when I quoted it, it's also figuratively incorrect. So, my mother thinks she lives in a nightmare? My life is _literally_ a nightmare, and I'm not being hypocritical here. I saw the thing that created one terrifying, recurring nightmare with my own eyes. I lived through something that I dream about nightly. I lived through my own father's death.

I blame no one but myself. If I hadn't had the cold determination to add another problem to my father's already loaded shoulders, he wouldn't have run out onto that highway in front of that car and splattered onto that road with his insides out and his outsides over the window screen of a Ford Fusion. If I hadn't come out to him, he would be alive, calmly oblivious.

Sometimes the nightmares come in pictures. Simple, serene flashes of headlights, soundless yells that are too loud in my skull, until my vision blurs and I wake up shaking, consoled by no one but myself and the comforting thought that I am at home, if you can call it a home, and not on the side of the highway. Then I remember once again that everything I dreamt happened, and it was my fault, and I bite down hard on my bottom lip and curl my hands into fists and press them against my eyes, fighting hard sobs.

Those are the nights I prefer. The nights I dread most are the ones where I dream exactly what happened on that day. The same nerves pumping through my veins, my father's casually intrigued expression and how it changes when I speak in my quavering voice. How it becomes coldly distant as shock spreads to his widened eyes, his slowly opening mouth. In a humorous way I'd describe it like him watching the ghost of my heterosexuality nonchalantly walking away, although nothing is funny about what I dream next, what actually happened after saying the words "I'm gay".

"Papá?" I say in my trembling voice, such a contrast to the steely glaze of his eyes as his face shift into disgust.

"Don't speak to me," He mutters, taking a step back.

"Lo siento, Papá," I whisper ruefully.

If my life were a movie theatre, it would specialise in horror movies. For this film, the plot twist happens now.

"Disgusting bastard!" He cries, suddenly and terrifyingly psychotic, lashing out at me with the back of one frantic hand. His fingers, shaking with rage, catch the side of my face and I stumble back. It leaves the anger to surge through him and into me, and suddenly I'm shouting too.

"I'm still your son, for God's sake!"

"You're no son of mine, fucking ladyboy!"

"What the hell did you just say?" I scream, my eyes betraying him as I give him my best glare through sudden tears.

"They always knew," He says in a sudden, unfathomable mutter. "They told me. They knew this would happen."

"What?" I demand, my voice abruptly weak, fear creeping in between shouts of anger.

That is the last word I say to him.

He staggers backwards, one foot placed unsteadily behind the other, before turning and breaking into a run, tearing down the slope behind us.

The feeling of pure dread hits me as realistically in the dream as it did when it happened. The slope leads to one very long, very life-threatening road full of hundreds of very, very fast cars.

The instant connection of the grass and my feet are so real in this goddamn nightmare. By the time I've run far enough for my father to be in sight once again, by the time I see the frantic speed he moves at toward the road, I'm slipping out of frantic denial and into chilling acceptance that he is doing this, that this is the end of him. I keep running anyway, arms flailing at my side.

The acceptance rushes away just as the car slams into my father. Just as his body is torn to pieces by a deathly flash of a silver Ford, I begin to feel... nothing.

Over the course of a year, nothing has been replaced by too many somethings. I would write you a list, but that's what Astrid does, because she's clever and I'm not, so I'll tell you now that none of them are good. Neither were the results of that day. It was pointless to phone an ambulance – I suppose I tried to trade unexplainable numbness for pathetic hope – but the police were involved within minutes. Following that, there was court case, which meant that our records had to be looked at. Ensuing from that, _la migra_ have been on our backs for the past year, as were psychologists, for months, by court's request; many thought my father was a sufferer of schizophrenia. They picked up on my mother's depression, told me I was something or other with the word dissociative in it (which they decided was untrue a couple of months later) and blatantly ignored the mental instability of my older brother, which was idiotic; take it from me, the one that shares a bed with him.

I begin my day by hastily waking my brothers up, who all in turn moan about sharing beds, and I then reluctantly awaken our mother, who mutters the word "mierda" in my face, presumably about remaining alive. After the painfully realistic dream I suffered from last night, this threatens to tip me over the edge, so I decide to put some clothes on, grab my phone and head outside, dragging myself to the nearest spot that will be out of sight to my family. I sit down on the cold, soaking grass and hold my head in my hands, my eyes threatening tears.

Last night was one dream too many. I can't be the family's rock, keeping us from crumbling, when I'm breaking myself.

I sit like this for a minute before wiping my wet cheek with the sleeve of my jacket. As I recompose myself, my phone starts to sing its familiar, tinny ringtone, and I jab the Accept Call button without checking to see who is actually phoning me. I relax as Sam Temple's familiar voice greets me.

"Hey, brah," He says, his smile audible. "We just wanted to know how you're feeling after yesterday."

I chuckle into the phone. "I'm fine. I raided your house for Tylenol, remember?"

"Oh, he does," I hear Astrid distantly call. "You left none for him and he wouldn't stop moaning about it."

"I'm sorry, dude," I continue to laugh, mocking a pitiful tone. "Hey, am I on speaker?"

"Wow, the dickhead understands phones," Quinn's irritatingly familiar voice jokes. "Is there anything Mexicans can't do?"

I force myself into silence. Sam's voice is spoken next, and this time it's muffled, his hand over the microphone. "Fuck off for a minute, Quinn," He says tiredly.

"Sorry," Quinn very quietly mutters, then his voice is suddenly a lot louder as he shouts down the phone, "tell the gaylord he's an asshole!"

I hear nothing but the awkwardness in the room, then the slam of a door. Astrid speaks next, saying, "I'm sorry about Quinn. He's being... touchy."

"When isn't he?" I sigh, wiping sleep from my eyes.

"Anyway," Sam's distinctive voice pierces the conversation, being Quinn's best friend and shit – although I've never figured out why. "You should come over for the day."

"Sam, I don't know if I can leave my mum again –"

"Dil?" Mary's voice, so familiar and gentle today, interrupts me. "We think you all need a break, for a few days. Come over and we'll have an awesome day and then we'll go out somewhere tonight. You can stay over here again. Right, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam says determinedly. "As long as you leave me some Tylenol this time."

Giving in is such a temptation. "Who else is there?"

"My brother and his girlfriend." Sam replies.

"You know, the sulky one that looks a bit like an unwashed rock star on tour." Astrid laughs.

"I can fucking hear you!" A voice growls in the background and I imagine Caine Soren shooting metaphorical daggers at Astrid's smirk. The famous girlfriend, Diana Ladris, laughs like the most irresistible witch you may ever have laid eyes from, and that's coming from a gay guy with an unforgettable barman's number in his pocket.

The barman. Roger. I need to talk to Mary about this. "That sounds great. But I can't get a lift down."

"I know, Edilio." Sam lets out a sigh. "That's why I'll be picking you up in ten minutes."

"Thanks, man." I smile to myself, running a hand through my overgrown hair. "See you in a bit."

"Later, assfucker," Quinn calls from somewhere out of the room. What a fucking dick.

"So he just gave you his number?"

"Yeah. He gave me our drinks and he was like, looking at me, then he wrote something down and I just shoved it in my pocket and when I looked at it yesterday, it was his number. And his name."

Mary and Astrid kneel before me as I sit on the sofa I've mentally labelled my own, demanding each detail. Caine is slumped moodily on the recliner with Diana perched on the arm of the same chair, her hands absentmindedly twisting into her boyfriend's dark hair. Sam sits with his legs up on another of the sofas, after tackling Quinn out of the house, sending him to get something he doesn't actually need.

Of the six people that welcomed me into Sam's familiar home, Quinn is the only one who doesn't know I'm gay, albeit his constant teasing and insulting about his suspicion of it. Mary, of course, was the first person to welcome my confession with open arms. Sam thought it was 'cool, brah' and worthy of a fistbump, while Astrid formally pulled me over to one side and told me in her usual kind but slightly intimidating tone that whatever I felt about myself, she would appreciate my honestly and keep me in her best concerns. I hardly knew Caine and Diana at the time but I ended up telling them purely to avoid awkward gaps in conversations; Caine raised an eyebrow and nodded, Diana smiled casually and said that it was cool with her since it didn't dramatically affect her life.

"So are you going to text him?" Diana asks, tilting her head in interest, which sends Caine into a spluttering mess as his girlfriend's brunette hair swings into his face. I bite down on my tongue to save a laugh escaping my lips before replying.

"I don't know what to say." I shrug. "I probably should've done it yesterday. He'll think I'm not interested or –"

"Woah, calm down, Analytic Astrid," Caine mutters, which earns a raised, perfectly plucked eyebrow from the girl herself.

"I think you should text him. Right now." Mary grins mischievously.

"What if he doesn't text back?" I ask, secretly worried.

"What if I don't give a shit?" Caine shifts in the recliner to avoid Diana's tumbling hair.

"I thought you were supposed to be a charmer."

"I am, when I can be fucked." He turns to Diana, moving her hair out of his face with a careful finger. "Care to do the deed?"

"Sure, if you can keep up." She smirks with one side of her mouth, her eyelashes low as she leans into Caine and places her lips on his, before Sam breaks them apart with a loud cough. "Consider it a challenge."

"I'm always up for a challenge," Caine grins, tracing the line of her jaw with one hand, flashing a glimpse of his suave side.

"Can we maybe return to the topic like right now?" Mary says, excessively loudly. "I totally appreciate that you two are horny as hell and want to do each other, but we're currently discussing Edilio's hot barman bastard."

"Let's not forget that you're my brother and I don't want to know how your dick feels right now," Sam contributes, and I finally let out a snort.

"Right, let's talk about your barman." Astrid said, stretching her legs out before her.

"Oh, so he's already my barman?" I shrug. "Looks like I don't need to text him, then."

"No, you definitely do." Sam smiles.

"You should be like, hey, totally forgotten you gave me your number, we should meet up some time." Mary suggests.

"No, too casual." Diana begins to shake her head. "What would you say, Caine?"

"I'm only good at sexting, so I can't really give you any ideas."

"Okay, I know what you can text him." Mary says with finality, shutting Caine up without one of Astrid's typical glares. "Text him this. 'Hey, Roger, remember me from the other night? I'll be back in the club tonight.'"

"Without my name?" I squint at her, frowning. "And it sounds really cheesy."

"Well, add your name at the end." She shrugs.

"No, say this." Astrid says sharply. "'Hey, Roger. I hope you remember me. I'm going to the club tonight, see you there. Edilio.'"

"Better than nothing," Sam says lazily as he rests his head on the arm of the sofa.

"Okay. Okay, I'll do that." I reach over to the coffee table for my phone, nervously scrolling through my contact list for Roger Barman. When I reach his name, I slowly type Astrid's words into the phone as a new text and take one shaky breath before hitting send. "Done."

"Now we wait." Mary grins up at me, relaxing her shoulders. We then hear the door open with a click as the burden of my life steps into the house.

"I'm back," Quinn calls as he bounds up the stairs. "Is the gypsy here yet?"

"Nice to see you too, Quinn." I plaster the most unconvincing smile I can manage onto my face. "I can't say I missed you."

"Damn, the Mexican doesn't have a crush on me," He practically snarls, leaning against the door frame like a middle-aged father of three kids waiting to pick up a hooker.

Abrupt anger hurls me to my feet. "What's your problem with me, Quinn?" I ask him loudly, outrage betraying me as my voice quavers. For a moment he glares at me, then intense – and utterly pointless – anger is replaced by a flash of something too quick to define, and he storms away.

"Fuck, I'm going to follow him," Sam grumbles, heaving himself off the sofa and following his best friend out of the room.

"What a fucking asshole," Diana mutters, brushing her hair to one side.

"I'm used to it." I shrug, collapsing onto the sofa again.

"Yeah, and you shouldn't have to be," She replies almost sadly. Just as she finishes speaking, my phone vibrates and my fingers scramble to retrieve it.

"Roger?" Mary asks eagerly. As I unlock my phone, I nod and fight a smile that should belong to a thirteen-year-old pubescent girl. I decide to read the text before showing it to anyone else, possessively shielding my phone from Mary's excited eyes.

_From: Roger Barman_

_2:34PM_

_You think I'd forget you? Like hell. When you get there tonight tell the DJ that the barman's requested a song. x_

After a minor mental freak-out on my behalf over the kiss at the end of the text, I slowly read the message out to everyone, last letter included. Mary quickly transitions into a quietly screaming ball, and Astrid takes the phone from me and squints at the screen.

"His spelling is flawless," She comments, and right now I imagine that if she needed glasses, she would be pushing them further up her nose.

"Well done, Edilio," Caine chuckles. "Not only have you pulled a blond barman, you've pulled a blond barman with impeccable spelling."

"Yeah, and that's really cool, right, but let's talk about the 'x' at the end." Mary glances around at us, settling her eyes on me, and presses her lips together, suppressing a squeal.

"Well, we've established that he likes you," Diana contributes.

"We established that when he gave Edilio his number," Astrid shoots back, throwing her hair behind her as the sunlight picks out its purest strands.

"Okay, so are you going to text back?" Caine asks, leaning forward in mild interest.

I look at Astrid, who seems to have all the good answers on this topic. "You should." She decides, leaning forward to pass my phone back. "You shouldn't be the one to text without a kiss, right? Just text him back, playing it cool, with a kiss at the end."

Using the word 'kiss' so often in a discussion about Roger admittedly makes me excited. I unlock my phone again, beginning a new text.

_To: Roger Barman_

_Definitely will. See you later x_

"That's not too short?" I ask after reading it aloud, precautious, and the two girls sitting on the floor shake their heads.

"Send it!" Mary urges, beaming. So I press send.

Stepping into the club is a lot more bearable and even slightly exhilarating this time around, and once Quinn disappears from sight, I begin to relax. Astrid points the DJ out to me and Mary takes one of my hands, dragging me onto the stage where he sits, behind mountains of equipment that only in my good dreams I can ever hope of affording. He sits with his feet laid casually amongst wires, headphones thrown around his neck and a smug expression worn on his face. The guy can't be more than twenty-two, although the light shining on his dark skin ages him.

"DJ Bassem at your service, how much are you paying me?"

"Er, I'm supposed to request a song from the barman." As I speak, his eyes widen in interest and amusement, giving me a wild smirk.

"Sure thing, man," He nods, reaching for the microphone as he fades the current song. "The next song after this one is from the barman," He announces, "who is waiting at the back of the club for the short Central American who is not paying me." He places the microphone back down, leaning back in his chair and turning the volume up again. "Enjoy your night," He squints at me through the colourful glares, then settles his eyes on Mary. "Hey."

I take this as my signal to leave, squeezing Mary's soft hand in farewell before letting go and making my way to the back of the club. From a distance I see Quinn, slightly distracted by the announcement but not enough to take his hands away from a Native American girl's hips, as she uses one rough hand to force his face down onto hers. I continue on my journey.

"...No, but, what really offends me is the fact that you're like, assuming I'm not responsible and mature, and shit like that." A strawberry-blonde girl around my height leans over the bar, her elbows pressed under her boobs to push them up, face-to-face with Roger – _back off, bitch _– says in an offended tone. "Like, why should I need ID to prove to you that I was born on the twentieth of January, 1992?" The girl wears hardly any clothing at all, and Dekka, who sits carelessly on a barstool, her hand curled over a glass containing some liquid of an unnatural colour, has her eyes all over what she does wear. There we go, then; apparently this girl's dazzlingly pink crop top and petite shorts, as well as her gender, are enough to distract Dekka from Roger.

"Look," Roger says in a voice that makes me want to curl up on this very bar and scream my head off, "ID or you stay sober. Simple as that, sorry."

"But I have rights –"

"And I'm being paid."

"This is _so _not fair!"

"Roger," Dekka speaks up, tearing her eyes away from the girl. "Wait. Hey," She turns back to the girl. "What's your name?"

"Brianna, but lots of people call me the Bree—"

"Brianna." Dekka says affirmatively. "What if I buy two drinks, then give you one without this fucker looking –" She jabs a thumb at Roger. "What would you say?"

"I'd say, thank you very much, you're my new best friend."

Dekka hesitates, then actually smiles. It turns out that this night is already jam-packed with surprises. "I can settle for that."

Brianna points at some kind of vibrant liquid and she pulls her top back up to cover the little amount of cleavage she has, then, as Dekka pays, she takes her drink like a trophy and grabs her new best friend's wrist in her other hand, dragging her away. Something shows on Dekka's face that resembles delight before she disappears into the exhilarated crowd.

This is the first time Roger and I are alone, at the bar of a club packed full enough to burst.

I replace Dekka on the barstool she sat in moments before I saw anything other than utter boredom and misery on her face. "Hey," I greet him weakly.

"What are you drinking?" He asks. "No, you have no clue about alcohol, do you? You obviously enjoyed the beer enough not to come back to see me, so I'll get you one of those."

Before I can protest about paying, he fetches the familiar bottle and places it in front of me, top broken off. "I have no money," I tell him in a simultaneously loud and quiet voice.

"Your change from the other night covers it," He shrugs, leaning forward. "Anyway, you may have already guessed this, but I like you."

"Like me?" I muster the courage to make eye contact, my hand gripping the beer bottle. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I like you in the way that I want to see what you look like naked, and I wouldn't mind feeling around afterwards."

I instantly look away, unsettled in more than one way by his unfamiliar bluntness. He moves his head closer to mine, his lips such a painfully small distance away from mine. "Now, as hard as it is to believe, I get paranoid about shit like this, and as obvious as it is that you are gay, I'd like you to confirm it for me."

_For God's sake, Edilio. What happened to your balls? No, don't answer that._

I nod once. "I'm gay," I try to say nonchalantly. "But I didn't realise it was obvious."

"Oh, come on, you actually texted me back."

"So it hasn't happened before?"

It's his turn to be casual. "I wouldn't know."

"What does that mean?"

"I've never given my number to anyone else in this club."

_Oh. So that's your confirmation._

"Also," He continues, "you're the definition of horny, standing right in front of me on the other side of this bar."

I narrow my possible responses down to zero and settle on changing the subject, but luckily, before I can trip over my own words, the current song fades out and Roger's smile changes to one of something similar to excitement. I take a sip of beer and when I look back at him, he's sitting on the bar, legs swung around.

"Now we're on the same side of the bar, which means I'm getting a bit frustrated too." He grabs one of my hands and jumps down, dragging me away from the bar. Once I manage to get a closer look at him, I decide I've definitely made the right choice – even though it's him that has made every definite move so far. His eyes are bright, although I can't see exactly what colour they are through the intoxicated shadows around us, and the natural blond colour of his hair is still visible as multicoloured flashing lights rotate down on him. He is a light against darkness, a contrast to my whole life.

He spots Dekka, who raises a hand in reply, and his eyes are locked on her when the song begins. My immediate thought that it may be a song slightly too _rock _for a club like this disappears when Roger and Dekka, albeit on opposite ends of the room, begin to airdrum eagerly along to the determined opening. It further diminishes when he turns back to me, pure joy on his face as he leans into me with his whole body for the first time, and says loudly, "His voice is sex."

I'm a puppet on a string

Tracy Island, time-travelling diamond

Coulda shaped heartaches

Come to find ya fall in some velvet morning

Years too late

"What song is this?" I shout.

"I can't hear you," He rests his cheek on mine, "you'll have to get closer."

This forces me onto my tiptoes, and I murmur right into his ear with all the confidence the beer can give me, "Is this close enough?"

He takes my beer bottle from me in one hand and drinks the foul liquid, placing the other hand firmly on my waist and pulling me close. "This is close enough."

I go crazy 'cause here isn't where I wanna be  
And satisfaction feels like a distant memory

"So what was your question that I definitely didn't hear?" He asks, his eyes cast down to look at me. What a wonderful time to feel small.

"What's the song called?"

"Are you mine?"

"I'm – what?"

He begins to laugh. "That's the name of the song, you asshole."

My mouth opens to form the sound of an 'O' but before any noise can escape me, Roger is suddenly against me, his lips on mine, my waist pulled near his, our shared beer bottle gripped awkwardly in his hand as his arm wraps around the back of my neck. I realise more with every centimetre of the distance he closes between us that my arms are rigid – just as something else threatens to be – at my side, so, encouraged by the trace of his tongue on my bottom lip, I reach up to his head, threading his hair between my fingers and pulling his face closer to mine.

God, he knows what he's doing.

He breaks our contact. "Maybe we should –"

I kiss him again, determined not to let him finish his sentence, just like he didn't let me begin mine. His mouth is open against mine in surprise, and suddenly the tables are turned, and I am full of determination to show him that I'm not a shit kisser as well as a shit talker. Hell, I can do other stuff with my mouth, too.

I mirror his actions, drawing a line between his lips with my tongue, continuing it along his own, slowly, teasingly. I feel his fingertips at the top of my spine, the bottom of my shirt, I feel his increasing lack of self-control, I drop my hands to his chest and waist and back and I feel him.

This time, he pushes me firmly away. "Fucking hell, Edilio," He says, actually struggling for breath, and I can't resist a grin. "You're coming back to my house. Come on."

"Wh – Sure. Sure, yeah, okay."

He laces his fingers through mine and I realise we'd been making out for at least two verses and a chorus as he pulls me between a crowd of cheering young adults, slapping us both on the back. He begins to drag me past someone who blocks the exit, but then that someone pushes Roger back on the chest, and I recognise that someone as Quinn.

My hands betray me and I pull my hand away from Roger's, taking half a step away from him too although my actions count for nothing as Quinn glares down at me. He crosses his arms over his chest and begins to laugh, glancing up at Roger.

"I fucking knew it." He smirks, stepping forward for his shoe to crush my toes, and I stumble backwards. "The immigrant is also a cocksucker –"

"Why don't you shut the fuck up and take your shit outside?" Roger steps between us, his fingers curling slightly.

"Sure, why don't you crawl back into the closet and fuck off away, then?"

"No." He steps closer to Quinn, his jaw set as he narrows his eyes. "You spurt your homophobic bullshit to both of us or you say nothing at all." He slams his hand into Quinn's chest, who hurls out of the doors and onto the pavement, the impact of the fall and the fresh, cold air almost visible.

Quinn is fast, forcing his annoying ass off the pavement and flicking his dark hair from his eyes, staring in bewilderment at Roger, who steps outside. "Okay then," He says as I slip out of the doors and close them behind me, "who the fuck are you?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"Yeah, well," Quinn splutters, "you answer me first."

"I'm Roger," He replies as calmly as possible, settling his thumbs on the belt loops of his jeans. "I'm the barman. Who are you?"

"Like I'm going to fucking tell you." Quinn snorts, a sound which is quickly cut off by Roger's sudden grasp of his shirt. Quinn is hurled against the outside wall of the club, suddenly trembling.

"Roger –" I panic, still flustered, pathetically attempting to pull him away from the terrified boy whom I despise.

"Who is this?" He says in plainest tone I've ever heard him use.

"Quinn Gaither," I mumble. "Look –"

"Why do you know him?"

"He's Sam's friend."

"Sam?"

"Sam Temple." I shrug. "He's my friend. But it's nothing like –"

"Calm down," Roger instructs me firmly. "If I can keep my head, so can you. Tell me who this bastard is, and what his problem is with you."

"Getting protective, are we –" Quinn's attempt at teasing earns him another slam against the wall.

"You shut the fuck up, okay?"

"I'm sorry; I've never been this close to a faggot before –"

"This asshole hates you because you're gay?" He glances at me then back to Quinn, now furious. I curl my hands into each other and he looks back at me. "There's something else, tell me."

"It's not –"

"Edilio," He takes one deep breath, "tell me."

"He doesn't like me because I'm Honduran," I blurt.

Quinn flinches in anticipation. Instead, Roger backs away at least a metre from him. "A racist homophobe?" Roger spits his words. "Wow, that's a fucking achievement." After no response, he adds, "Fuck you, Quinn Gaither. So Edilio's Honduran, so he's gay. Who gives a shit?"

"You do, obviously." Quinn eventually finds the balls to reply, although his face pales and his eyes widen as he speaks, quickly breaking eye contact.

"You know what? Yeah, I do." He channels his rage in his shaking arms, his sour voice. "Because if he wasn't Honduran and gay he wouldn't be him, and I wouldn't be attracted to him, because, you know, I'm gay too, if you want to say crap about that. Now, before you ever-so-kindly disrupted our evening, we were on our way to my house, where I'm planning on doing unspeakable things to him which I won't tell you about. Unless you do want to hear about them, in which case I'll drag you into a dark alleyway and whisper them in your ear whilst tickling your balls, because that's what faggots do, right?"

Absolute and utter silence follows. It shatters, then, broken by Quinn's quick, shaky breaths. Roger turns away and grabs my hand, and I keep my pace quick to keep up, before he turns around again and adds, as one last afterthought:

"You stay the fuck away from us both, Quinn Gaither, or I'll give you something to be scared of."


	3. Chapter 3 - Home

Considering what I've just witnessed, the anger in Roger's eyes is enough to put Quinn's fear into my own. This time, though, I suck it up in a way I wasn't expecting to tonight, and confront him.

"Why did you do that?"

He stops walking and lifts his head, shaking himself out of his sulky position. "He deserved it."

"He's going to give me a hell of a lot more shit now."

"That's the longest sentence you've ever said to me, you know that?" He turns to face me. "And you're actually defending that asshole."

"I'm not defending him!" I retort as I meet his eyes, my face twisting into disbelief. "I'm stating a fact. You've basically confirmed to him what he's been bullying me about for years, and you've made him scared. Trust me; fear doesn't look good on Quinn Gaither."

His eyes drop from mine, frowning. "Then what does?"

"Excuse me?"

"It's an old-school method, isn't it? Be mean to the one you secretly like."

"What the hell?" My voice begins to get louder. "I think it's pretty damn obvious he hates me!"

"Is it?" He turns away from me and begins to walk again, gesturing for me to follow. Partly against my own will, I do. "Maybe he's jealous of me."

"Are you high?"

"Not at this very moment, no."

"How the hell could he be jealous of you? For a start we hardly know each other and secondly you're probably taking me to your house to find out what I can do with my hands and mouth."

He stops again, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling my body to his. Before I can comprehend what is happening, his tongue is in my mouth, searching for mine, and he stays there for joyfully slow seconds before gently pushing me away. He stoops to kiss my earlobe, my neck, his lips surprisingly soft and gentle as they press against my blushing skin. I feel his hands on my body but this time everything is different. He is holding me. That is, until I let out an embarrassingly weak gasp at the feel of his teeth on my neck, at a spot under my ear that he has very correctly guessed to be overly sensitive. He kisses the spot once again to soften the pain of his bite, and steps away from me, warm laughter in his eyes and then his voice. "Who said you'd be doing all the work?"

_For fuck's sake, Edilio. Stop being speechless._

"As to your first issue, that's why I'm taking you to my place. To get to know each other."

"Right." I begin to walk, simply to distract myself from staring at him. "Okay. Where do you live?"

"In an apartment, three streets away, which I share with Dekka. The residents below us have recently formed a heavy metal band called Death To Christ, and the apartment above us belongs to a heterosexual couple who are usually at it like rabbits at three thirty in the morning, except for Saturday nights since they have church the next day."

"You're talking crap."

"I'm really not." He grins. "Okay, I lied about the band. They're called Family Feud; two parents, two teenagers. They're still loud as hell and extremely shit." I nod reluctantly, disbelievingly. "This is good. We're getting to know each other."

"You don't even know my last name." I point out, glancing at him, avoiding everything about him that makes me want to look back again.

"Fine. What's your last name?"

"Escobar."

"Escobar. Edilio Escobar." He grins. "Ess - coh - _bar_. See? We were meant to be. You're the bar and I'm the barman."

"So I'm an inanimate object?"

"Yes." He nods defiantly. "But that's not bad, considering I get to put my hands all over you every night."

"Whatever," I say pathetically, since yet another awkward silence and shy blush would be inconsiderate. "What's yours?"

"People call me Artful Roger, as well as some other nicknames."

"But that's not your surname."

"You're observant," He claps me on the back with one hand. "Names don't matter that much to me."

"But you asked for mine." I risk a look at him, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"I'm interested in you, asshole," His hand slides onto my shoulder, his thumb grazing the bottom of my neck. "You don't talk much even though I bet you've got a lot to say. It's torture."

"I'm really not that exciting."

"I can definitely argue with you on that one."

"I don't talk much, you said it. I don't argue."

"Okay, so I can show you how valid my point is with actions." He stops walking again, forcing my feet to root to the pavement, and drops his head to put his mouth by my ear, his breath painfully soft, invitingly warm. "I can show you with my hands. I can show you with noises and words. Let me prove my point, Edilio."

Fuck. This is unfair. He knows what he's doing, how me makes me feel. He knows where I want him to be, lying on top of me with that bastard smirk. He knows where I want his hands; if we were pressed against each other at this moment he'd probably feel the place too.

"I bet you're exciting," He continues, his hand in my hair, his fingertips at the top of my spine, making contact with my skin ever so slightly, enough to force me to suppress a shiver. "But I guess I won't be finding out."

"You can find out if you want to," I murmur, my voice involuntarily quiet, low. For a moment a fear he can't hear me until I feel his smile against my jaw, just once, one time too little.

"Not tonight." He twists his fingers into my hair, pulling playfully.

"Why?" I ask him, praying to any pure god listening to my filthy pleads that he doesn't hear the desperate weakness in my voice.

"I hardly know you." He drops his hand, and starts walking again, grabbing my wrist, forcing me to keep up. "I don't want you to think you're just an easy fuck."

"But I'm basically that anyway."

"Oh, I know. You're desperate."

"No, I mean -"

"I know what you mean." He laughs as he leads me around a corner, pointing at a block of apartments. "I live there."

I nod in acknowledgment and force my words out of my closing throat. "I thought that was why you were taking me here. To do whatever you feel like doing to me then leave me."

"I was tempted," He confirms. "But then I realised I'm actually intrigued by you."

"So you're going to fuck me when you know a bit more about me."

"Essentially."

"Well, what are we doing here then?"

"Just because I'm not going to put my dick in your ass, doesn't mean I can't do other things with it, right?" He slips his hand into mine and pulls me toward the apartment block, quickly unlocking the door and turning to face me. "Relax; I'm joking. I just want to get drunk."

"I don't drink that much," I tell him.

"You can be the barman tonight, then." He replies.

"What does -" He pulls me past the door, against him once again, his mouth so close but too far from mine.

"You question everything, don't you?" He murmurs. "Stop being so curious." He entwines our hands once again, leading me to one of the first doors on the left side of the corridor.

"I thought you had neighbours below you?"

He chuckles as he unlocks the door. "See what I mean? And, yes. They live in the basement. They were going to call their band _Bass_ment, like the instrument, but they decided that sounded too dubstep. It's all about being hardcore, apparently." He pushes the door open, spreading his arms wide. "Welcome to our shitty palace."

The door opens onto the hallway, which is covered in posters from top to bottom of both walls, no peeling wallpaper to be seen. There are posters of bands; I recognize men covered in tattoos, hair streaked with miscellaneous hair dye. Some are more reserved; I spot John Lennon's face peeking out from behind a clock that hangs on the wall. Nirvana, Pink Floyd, other older bands, their posters increasingly calmer, darker.

"These are Arctic Monkeys, the band that have the song I requested." He points at one long poster, a serene ocean with a boat floating in the middle, containing four young men younger than us. "This was taken years ago, though. They've changed since then." I follow him along the hallway. "This is from Kick-Ass. Dekka's obsessed, she loves Hit-Girl." He jabs a finger at bright, glossy images of people getting kicked in the face by small children.

"Nice."

"Oh, I know. There's some manga here, that's a lot worse." I bite my tongue to stop myself from asking. He notes my expression and explains. "Japanese cartoons." He spins around. "There." He gestures at some black and white pictures above a closed door. "I can't remember what it's called. Something about titans. Dekka knows the plot inside out. Apparently it's really gay, I should read it."

"Gay titans. Sounds interesting."

"I'm sure it is." He grins. "You're sarcastic, I like it."

"My friends are all pessimists or scientific prodigies. I've got to keep up."

"I'd love to see you keep up," He drags me through a doorway to the left, past some newspaper articles stuck to the wall, preaching about Margaret Thatcher and cow-tipping. This room doubles up as a living room and a kitchen, something so stereotypical of a college student. Its only contents are a minute television, a coffee table, a stained, floral sofa straight out of a catalogue of some fabric store from the nineties, some pictures that scream _art student_, and some cheap kitchen equipment you'd expect to belong to someone from the suburbs of Perdido Beach.

He nods at the sofa, telling me without words to sit down, and walks over to one of the kitchen cupboards, enthusiastically announcing "Alcohol!" as he opens it. "You're not drinking, then?"

"I don't like being drunk." I say carefully.

"Lightweight." He mutters, searching through an assortment of bottles. "Okay. You can be a pussy and drink vodka and coke, and I'll do the same, without the coke."

"You're drinking shots?"

He chooses a small, clear bottle and sets it on the worktop before opening another cupboard and reaching for two glasses, one tall, one short. "Correct. For God's sake, Escobar, stop with the questions."

"Right."

"There's some coke and shit there." He kicks at a bottle on the floor. "Pour your own drink." He carries the vodka and shot glass over to the coffee table, collapsing next to me. "Well? I can't drink on my own."

In response, I get to my feet and walk to his excuse of a kitchen. I pause. I reach for a shot glass.

"You changed your mind quickly." He teases.

Shot glass in hand, I return to my spot next to him. "I'm a quick thinker."

"Good," He replies, taking my shot glass and setting it down on the table. His hand moves to my face, brushing away dark hair that has fallen into my eyes. "I don't like going slow."

My lucid movements are halted and I freeze, my eyes on his. They're blue, I finally realise, so bright and captivating and large, made smaller by their focus on my lips. "You're so frigid," He tells me quietly, "which is why we're getting drunk."

"You're forcing me to get drunk?" I reply slowly, fighting to keep calm.

"Stop being so fucking curious," He says with a hint of a laugh, that goddamn laugh, "it's not attractive. Shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you."

I press my lips together momentarily, nodding once. With one deep breath he drops his hand, breaking his gaze away. He turns to the bottle of vodka, expertly pouring two shots. "Do you realise we've only kissed three times?"

"Um," I murmur, "yes."

"It's a shame, isn't it?" He turns back to me.

"I suppose."

"You suppose?" He repeats, smirking. "That's not very enthusiastic."

I say nothing.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be mean to you. Tell you what; I'll do you a deal."

"A deal." I say, keeping the question out of my voice.

"Yeah." He offers me one of the glasses, holding the other for himself. "For every shot you take, you can do whatever you want to me."

"Whatever I want?"

"Whatever you want."

"Like –"

"Fucking hell, Escobar, calm down." He smirks. "You look like you've seen a ghost, or someone getting brutally murdered by a ghost."

"Nice image," I reply slowly, still unsure and slightly panicked about what the hell he means by 'whatever'. "But seriously –"

"It's simple enough," He says as he presses my glass into my hand, the cold glass surrounded by his smooth fingertips against my flushed skin. "Kiss me. Touch me. Punch me if you think I'm being an asshole, I sometimes worry about that. Anything you want. You've got complete permission until I'm drunk, and trust me, that'll be a long time after you're passed out on the floor, or the sofa, or preferably my bed."

_Force some words out of your mouth, you jittery asshole. _"Stop cutting me off when I'm ta—"

"Edilio." He rolls his eyes, impossibly carefree, and speaks in a tone that oozes boredom. "You need to calm the fuck down. I haven't even got to my part of the deal."

"Right," I knit my fingers around the glass, "carry on, then."

"For every shot I take, you have to tell me something about you."

"A confession?"

"Yeah."

"Why can't we do confession for confession, then?"

"Because I'm not interesting."

"No, you are." I hesitate, allowing him an opportunity to reply, but he makes no effort to respond. "Why should I be the only one confessing?"

"Because I want to hear you actually confessing, not driving me crazy by repeating the fucking word."

In my sober state I decide to tease him. "Con-fess-ing," I enunciate loudly.

"Has anyone ever told you that your accent is actually really sexy?" He tilts his head to the side, his jaw jutting out cockily. "If you want to fuck around with me, you take a shot."

Suddenly I'm challenging him. I put my glass on the table. "Fine," He says. One eyebrow is expertly, irritatingly raised. "Be like that." He takes his glass and lifts it to his lips, eyes on me, trained, and drinks the liquid in one amazingly easy swallow. The only trace of distaste on his face is a small grimace.

"How did you just do that?"

"I swallowed." His voice is low. My hands find their way around each other once again. "Okay. Tell me something about yourself."

"What do you want to know?" I ask him, digging my nails into my palm. Suddenly the topic of Edilio Escobar is something scary and dark, something I dread discussing.

"What do you do with your life?" He leans back, his body turned to face me, one arm propped up on the back of the sofa, hand placed on the back of his neck.

_I spend my days trying to talk my mother out of suicide and restraining my brother from using the rest of us like a punchbag. _"Nothing."

"You don't have a job? College course? Secret life as a superhero?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Shouldn't you take another shot to ask that?"

"No." He shakes his head adamantly. "It's your turn now." He nods at my glass of impending doom. "Go on."

I haven't had a sip of vodka in about four years. The last time I touched it was at Sam's eighteenth birthday, when he was utterly hammered and boasting about having sex with Astrid the Genius, getting a job and earning money, moving away from his apparent "shithead" of a mother, being a free man at last. The other thing that was free that night was his dick. I wasn't involved. Plenty of nudity, however, was.

That was the first and last time I'd tried vodka. I thought it would be cool to drink illegally. Getting pissed is impressive, isn't it? It did, at least, impress someone enough to earn me a blowjob. I was too drunk to ask the guy his name, but I'd never met him before. He was drunk too, and it was actually pretty shit, but that's beside the point. Anyway, definitely the first and last time. Until today. I mean the vodka, not the blowjob, although I wouldn't be opposed to that either.

Of course, I have to knock this fucking shot back before even considering getting near Roger's cock. I pick the glass up and brace myself, breathing as deeply as I can without being an obvious pathetic wimp, then I let it pour down my throat.

People compare vodka to fire. Personally, I think that's a bit of an understatement. It's more like travelling through all nine circles of Hell without possessing the traits required to visit them, in a luminous fuchsia golf cart, to make your pain that much more slow, insufferable, and hilarious for anyone watching your agony. I've probably reached the fifth circle by the time Roger collapses into laughter.

"F-fuck off." I choke, crossing my arms in pathetic defeat.

"Fine, if that's what you want me to do, I'll just leave," He threatens, then grins. "Bless your Honduran soul. You'll be pissed by your fourth shot, I bet."

"I'm not _that_ bad," I retort weakly.

"Let's see if you can prove it. So, what are you going to do to me?"

I hadn't exactly had an opportunity to stop and ponder about that.

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Okay."

"Say something in Spanish."

"That's a bit boring," I say, breathing as I remember that oxygen will actually help my post-shot suffering.

"No it's not. Spanish is actually a very attractive language to an innocent American like me." He widens his eyes and tries a small smile, pleading with his face.

"Fine." I sigh and speak quietly. "_Quiero que me folles._"

"I have no idea what that means," He begins, "but I know it sounds really good, especially when you say it." His hand twists carelessly around mine, his fingers grazing my knuckles. "Say something else. One sentence isn't much for a shot. Something you want to tell me, since it is your shot, too."

"_Estás molesto arrogante, pero en realidad me gustas mucho_."

"Did you just call me arrogant?"

"Maybe."

That earns me a gentle kick to the shin, and a soft smirk. "Piece of shit."

"Now we're even."

He stares at me for a moment, mocking a glare. Then he admits defeat by drinking another shot. Absolutely no evidence of tipsiness shows. In my own eyes, everything bright is a bit brighter, everything dark a bit darker. I blink once to get rid of the distortion. "Gone straight to your head, has it? Be glad the band isn't practising downstairs, you'd be fucked then."

_"Hijo de puta_."

"I'll forgive you for saying swearwords I can't understand if you tell me something else about yourself."

"I really don't know what to say."

"Do you dream?"

I look down at our knotted hands. "Sometimes."

"Do you have nightmares?"

"Yes."

He says nothing. I move my thumb along the back of his hand.

"You don't have to talk about them." He smiles suddenly sympathetic. "Nightmares are horrible. That's why I share an apartment with Dekka." He looks prepared to carry on, but he stops himself from continuing. From these words alone, I'm encouraged to speak.

"I have nightmares about my dad." I hesitate. "He's dead."

"That's horrible," He murmurs solemnly.

"Yeah. It is."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"No, I mean I'm sorry for bringing it up."

"You had no idea. It's fine."

"No, it's not fine."

"Stop it." I look up into his eyes. "You didn't take a shot to hear me being depressing and vague. I'll tell you about it."

"Don't tell me this just because I took a fucking shot," He replies in a whisper which softens his swearing.

I look at him for a moment. I realise that the side of him I see now has been there all along. It was present when he confronted Quinn. It's been present throughout his teasing, drinking; beneath his cocky front, Roger is human. He has nightmares, just like I do.

"My father died because of me." I tell him bluntly. "He committed suicide when I came out to him. It was my fault for being gay."

"It's not your fault for being gay."

"Well it obviously is, because otherwise he'd be alive."

"You can't exactly help it, can you?" He squeezes my hands with his. "No one chooses to be gay and have the shit that comes with it."

"You don't get it." I roll my eyes. Self-loathing wraps its arms around me once again and I drop my gaze to the floor. "If I hadn't come out, he wouldn't have died."

"If you hadn't come out," He says slowly, unwinding one hand from my painful grasp and gently nudging my chin with his fingers, "you'd be sentenced to a life of hell where you couldn't be yourself and you'd have constant pressure on your shoulders to get married and have kids and everything that's depressingly _normal _and average and nothing like you."

"And I'd have my father to help me raise them and keep me sane and keep the rest of my family on track."

"The rest of your family?" His voice is tender. His hand remains hovering by my face.

"I have three brothers." I pause momentarily. "My mother's not much help with them."

"Family suck." Words seem to fail him, and his eyes flicker down to my lips. "Fuck the drinking game. I want to kiss you."

Darkness is usually the worst part of my life. I'm used to lying in bed, listening to my brother's ragged breathing, trying to hold onto something. Darkness usually closes me down. When my eyes close as Roger's lips touch mine, I discover a welcoming darkness. The pain in my chest turns into something bearable, something that is somehow positive. His fingers slide into my hair as gently as his mouth grazes the side of mine. He kisses my lips, my cheek, my jaw. Before he moves any further away from me, I wrap both arms around him and kiss him as softly as I can for so long, so brilliantly and perfectly long. I feel him smile, and suddenly we're both grinning against each other, and everything is good, everything is okay as long as I'm kissing him. Everything is okay even when he breaks our contact by moving his head just slightly away from mine, and asks, "Can I show you something?"

"Of course," I reply, my eyes focused on his lips, my fingers brushing the warm skin of his neck. He kisses me once again without moving his hands or the rest of his body, and I mirror his movements, and we just kiss, and that's all that's needed.

When he pulls away from me again, he takes my hand, stands up and pulls me up from the sofa as he locks our fingers together. He leads me out of the room, through a door to his left, and switches the light on. The room is made of old laminate flooring and peeling off-white walls, the paint stained darkly, flaking, blank canvases of a variety of sizes propped against all four of them. In the middle of this attempt at construction, one easel sits, proudly displaying a piece of art in progress, recognisable through the wispy paint strokes as the bar I'm getting familiar with. The colours contrast brilliantly. A dark figure leans carelessly against a wall in the background, a pale manicured hand twisted around her arm, its owner cleverly painted out of sight. One tall beer bottle, shining with the reflection of multicoloured lights, is placed on the bar, accompanied by an uncoloured hand.

Roger stands behind me, breathing softly onto my neck. "Whose hand is that?" I ask him the first words that pop into my mind.

"I haven't decided yet."

"It's amazing," I tell him, "the whole piece, I mean."

"Nah." He wraps his arms loosely around my waist and rests his chin on my shoulder. "It's not. I'm just painting what I see every day. That's actually extremely boring and average."

"I can't even paint," I reply.

"Have you ever tried?" He questions me.

"In school, yes. I was kind of shit at everything in school."

"Don't give me that shit. You're talented."

"You don't know me, you can't say that."

"No, I can." He hides his face in my neck, muffling his voice. "You're talented. You make me care."

"What does that mean?" I ask softly, reaching absent-mindedly for his hair.

"I've said that much, don't push your luck. Don't expect me to say anything else."

"Okay." I let comfortable silence settle between us, before breaking it as gently as possible. "So you're an art student?"

"Yep. I'm one of those really cryptic, stereotypically emo assholes, and I pay absolutely stupid prices to splatter my emotions across a canvas."

"I can tell." I say, and he laughs quietly. "Where do you keep the rest of your work?"

"Stop asking questions." He bites my neck gently, teasing me, and I tilt my head away, closing my eyes. "If you don't turn out to be a dick I may show you one day."

"You may want to phrase your sentences better next time." I breathe. "I almost heard that as "I may show you my dick one day"."

"You're obviously not concentrating, then."

"I blame you."

"How offensive. My heart aches." He moves his mouth to my ear. "Keep this up and I'll have to show you who's boss."

"Sarcastic and confusing," I muse. "Yeah, you're definitely an art student."

"Shut the fuck up, Escobar," He murmurs. "I bothered to bring you here, talk to you, kiss you and show you this room. That doesn't happen often; consider yourself privileged. Now can we just be really soppy and cliché or whatever, and sleep? I want to wake up with you."

"There's a word for you in Spanish. I'm sure it means tease, but it translates as dickwarmer."

"That's something I've never been called before," He laughs, entertained. "Come on." He unwinds his body from mine and walks to the door, waiting for me to catch up before flicking the light off and plunging the room into isolation once again. I follow him into another room. This one is a bedroom, a tiny room, simply furnished with a single bed, a bedside table and a lamp, some draws and a couple of fairly full bookshelves. Almost everything in the room is black.

"Black is cheap, according to furniture stores," He explains. "Dekka disagrees." He pushes me onto the bed and climbs on top of me. His lips meet mine once more, his tongue teasing them apart.

I push him away from me. "I thought –"

"I'm just messing with you," He grins as he allows himself to be pushed, lying down next to me. "Sorry about getting your hopes up."

"You should be," I mutter, mocking him.

"Oh, the day will come," He says, his voice grand. "As will you."

"_Buenas noches_, Roger."

"You sounded really foreign when you said that just then, did you realise?" I rest my head on his shoulder as he speaks, his lips close to my face. "I think your accent suits my name."

"You want to sleep but you don't stop talking. I don't get you."

"Don't blame me, I'm an art student." He leans his head against mine. "Goodnight, Edilio."

Sleeping peacefully and without disruption is one of the biggest and best luxuries in my life. Therefore, of course, it can't last for much longer than six hours.

My phone vibrating softly in my pocket wakes me up. Roger is asleep at my side. I reach for my phone and unlock the shitty thing. Seven texts from Astrid.

_From: Astrid :)_

_5:25PM_

_Where are you?_

_5:32AM_

_Come to Sam's house._

_5:40AM_

_You need to come to Sam's house. Something happened._

_5:47AM_

_Mary needs you. Please come to Sam's house._

_5:54AM_

_Where the hell are you? Are you with Roger?_

_6:09AM_

_This isn't funny. Mary needs you ASAP_

_6:21AM_

_For fuck's sake._

This is bad. This is really bad. Mary goes through... phases. If she's going through one right now, I need to go.

But I can't leave.

No, I have to. Mary is my best friend and if she needs me, I shouldn't be thinking twice about getting my ass to Sam's house. To stay here would be selfish, even if Roger told me he wanted to wake up with me. To stay here and memorise the soft breathing movements of his chest, the way his hair falls breezily into his face, the soft, innocent curl of his lips, would be inconsiderate to Mary, who needs me.

I slowly peel my body away from his, carefully rising from the bed. I pause and hold my breath, but he shows no sign of waking up or any awareness that I'm leaving. Quietly, I walk out of the room, to the front door of the apartment, and leave.

"_Lo siento_, Roger. _Perdóname._"


	4. Chapter 4 - Reliable

"Where the absolute fucking hell have you been?"

What a nice greeting.

These words are irately whispered by Astrid as soon as I reach the door of Sam's house, which has unofficially become theirs. She looks like she's slept in a bush. A bush that's been swept up by a hurricane and blown into the mouth of one of those really evil Greek gods, viciously chewed, and spat out again.

"I was -"

"Considering I'm whispering myself, did you not have any clue that you should be at least speaking quietly instead of projecting your voice around the whole house? You're not a fucking PowerPoint!"

"Okay," I lower my voice, "where is Mary?"

I step into the hall but Astrid stands in front of me stubbornly. "I know I look like a wreck right now but so do you. Where have you been?"

"Does it really matter, Astrid?" I look down at her, crossing my arms.

"Will you tell me after you pay some attention to your best friend and possibly talk her out of suicide and a killing spree?" She spits.

I feel the familiar sensation of the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. "Yes, if you tell me where the fuck she is!"

Astrid takes one long, deep breath. "The kitchen. So is everyone else." She closes her eyes, taking this still, quiet moment and trapping it in her mind forever. "Be careful, okay?"

"When aren't I careful?" I mutter, and walk around my friend to see Caine, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, ducking out of the vision of anyone inside. His hair is mostly thrown over one shoulder, reaching past it, the ends tangled although this isn't a bedhead; he hasn't slept. He bites the skin circling his thumbnail absentmindedly, his frown softening as he sees me.

"Alright?" He murmurs.

"I guess," I say, although I feel my fear growing in every pounding heartbeat, and he nods at my response in acknowledgment and then to the open door.

"Good luck," He says, returning his thumb to the edge of his lips. "You'll need it."

I walk in. My second greeting since stepping into the house is a knife, pressed against my throat, chillingly creating a barrier between me and my best friend.

Mary looks psychotic.

She is utterly terrifying. Her eyes are wide, glistening with some kind of desperate, sick excitement that hides frail fear, emptiness. Her make-up is haphazardly streaked along her cheeks, her hair wild and matted with sweat, her teeth bared and her laugh not even that but simply a noise, utterly chilling.

"You fucking asshole!" She screams into my face. I attempt backing away but she grabs my hair with her free hand and yanks me forward, the lethal metal threatening to cut me.

"Mary -"

"Shut the fuck up before I slice your throat." She hisses, squinting, and I see her vision shaking. I see tears forming. "Where were you?"

"Mary, relax," I say as calmly as possible which actually isn't calm in the slightest, "it's me, Edilio. I'm here now."

"That's not what I asked," Her hand trembles, the space between my throat and her weapon increases, her manic expression is replaced with... nothing. She lets the emptiness show with tears, otherwise blank.

"It's okay," I tell her firmly, as I carefully reach for the knife. "I'm here now. You've got me, Mary."

She takes one step away from me, holding the blade out in front of her for me to take.

I only notice Quinn standing behind her when he puts his hand on her arm. This one, small, protective action is enough to set her off. She swings around, knife in hand, and in one swift movement, slices into the soft skin of his arm.

My first thought is that she could have cut me.

My first thought is selfish.

The blood pouring out of Quinn's arm is more than the tears in Mary's eyes. She does not cry. The only thing in her eyes is sudden satisfaction. Quinn is ablaze with disbelief and then rage;

"Fuck off! You're a crazy shit!"

"Quinn," I say, my voice low, "be calm."

"You expect me to be calm, faggot?" He screams. "Your best friend just cut into my fucking flesh!" He turns around and I see Sam and Diana for the first time, their faces identically pale, chalked in fear and shock, staring back at him. "Get that bitch away from me!"

"I'm not going near her, brah," Sam breathes, "not like this."

So we're now talking about Mary as if she isn't here, weapon in shaking hand, pupils mere dots in her widened eyes, breathing ragged. For a moment, she isn't. For a moment, I realise this isn't Mary.

And then she lets herself drop the knife and her knees buckle underneath her and she falls to the security of the kitchen tiles, her body a spasming heap of sobs. She is Mary again.

Sam gives me a look that is unreadable to Quinn and Diana, and Astrid and Caine who are now behind me, muttering to each other, but very direct to me. He looks at me with a simple crease on his forehead and minute squint of his eyes, which says, "It just happened again".

"I'm going to take Mary upstairs," I carefully tell Sam.

"And I'm going to the hospital," Quinn says, his voice cracking in worry.

Astrid speaks, her voice timid. "Quinn, that's not the best idea -"

"What the hell is wrong with you people?" He shouts. "I'm bleeding and none of you give a shit! You're all so concerned about Miss-fucking-Havisham over here and her gay sidekick, and not the guy that may need stitches!"

Sam walks up to Quinn and looks at him grimly, muttering something very quietly. Quinn's face becomes solemn and he looks back at his best friend, then nods reluctantly. "Right." He says, curling his right hand around the injury on his arm as well as possible. "Well, is anyone going to fucking help me?"

"You swear a lot when you're mad, Quinn," Diana says, running a hand through her hair as she receives a non-committed glare. "Do you have any dressings, Sam?"

"Already got one," Astrid says, holding a white bandage.

While the girls tend to Quinn, and Sam and Caine mutter to each other in equally serious voices, I kneel down next to Mary and move some hair away from her face. Her eyes are squeezed shut but her lips tremble, on the verge of another outburst of tears.

"You okay?" I ask softly.

"No," A child's voice replies. She tries to lift her arms but the strength left in her is used by keeping her as dignified as she possibly can be at this moment. I slide my arms underneath her and lift her up. Wordlessly, I leave the room and carry her upstairs, to a bedroom I distantly recognise. Once she's lying down, comfortable, I close the door and sit on the edge of the bed.

"Don't leave," She murmurs, her voice so quiet, tired, that a lump forms in my throat.

"I won't," I promise.

"It happened again, didn't it?" She asks as I lean forward to gently wipe her face.

I nod.

She looks away from me, at her hands. She curls them into two fists. Then she bursts into tears again.

I take her in my arms and she rests her head on my shoulder. Through her sobs I hear her say, "I want it to stop."

"I know, Mary," I reply, smoothing her hair, "I promise it'll stop."

Another promise I can't keep, just like the one I made to Roger without words. I promised to myself I'd stay with him for the night, but I broke that promise to come here and make this promise.

"You're so good to me, Dil," Mary pushes me away gently, looking at me with red-rimmed eyes. "You're always there. You're reliable."

I shrug it off. "I'm just glad you're okay." I tuck some dark, wiry stands of hair behind her ear. "You should sleep."

"Stay with me until I do," She commands although her voice is weak, and squeezes my hand with hers as it continues to shake.

"Of course." I reply, and I stay with her as she lies down on her side, until, after around ten minutes, her breathing becomes soft and regular and there is no sign of a frown on her face. I leave this bedroom with permission. At the top of the stairs, I meet Quinn, face-to-face.

"Thanks a lot, asshole." Quinn mutters, looking down at me through limp dark hair, gesturing at his mummified arm.

"Not today, Quinn." I plead, exhausted. "I'm not in the mood."

"I wasn't in the mood to have my arm sliced open," He hisses through bared teeth.

"I'm sorry about that." I move away from the stairs, back onto the landing, just in case Quinn's rage becomes unbearable and he decides to push me down the stairs, or something else that could be considered the second tragic incident of the morning. I wonder if it would be best if it happened to him, instead of me. In fairness, I think despite my everlasting hatred for the guy, he's had a tough morning. "Why are you up here?" I ask him.

"I wanted to check on Mary."

"She's asleep."

"Oh." He returns his arms to the pockets of his hoodie, luckily red to disguise the blood. "I think I deserve an explanation, though."

"About what?" I raise an eyebrow as I return his suspicious glare, annoyed to have to look up at him although the height difference is hardly anything to fuss over. He, of course, looks at me like a slave, which I suppose he thinks all Hondurans - or Mexicans - should be.

"What the hell happened?" He drops his gaze, genuine curiosity and confusion clear in the suddenly gentle tone of his voice.

I force myself to stand straight, any foreign sympathy for him slowly evaporating. "Why should I tell you anything about my best friend when you compare her to a mentally unstable fictional character and call me her gay sidekick?"

He slumps against the wall, looking even further away, suddenly interested by the carpet. "I'll stop that."

"Stop what?" I twist my hands together, digging my fingernails into my own skin to direct my increasing anger toward someone other than the boy that's making an utterly pathetic attempt to apologise. "Being racist? Homophobic? Generally ignorant and needlessly offensive?"

"Yeah."

"Are you serious, Quinn?" I take one long, deep breath before speaking. "You can't even say the word sorry so you put on that pitiful face and expect me to forgive you anyway? You've been a dick to me since day one, seven years ago when I walked into your class and you yelled, "Go back to taco land, wetback", and you think I'll let that lie just because you think you deserve an explanation for something that can hardly even be explained?"

"Edilio, I'm sorry -"

"Bullshit! You're not sorry," I force my voice down to a volume that won't awaken Mary. "You want some gossip so you pretend to be sorry but you're definitely not, sorry, Quinn, that's one of the things you aren't. I don't understand that twisted mind of yours, the one that makes you think the definition of funny is taking the piss out of things that don't affect you. Yes, Quinn, I'm Honduran. I'm not Mexican. I'm from Central America. We moved to California because it was actually really hard to live in Honduras; our hometown was fucking horrible and absolutely disgusting, okay? We didn't come here to steal your jobs."

"Look, man -"

"You fucking listen to me, okay?" I demand. "I don't know how this matters, or why you care so much that you have the need to make me feel shit about it, but yes, I am gay. I don't want to put your dick in my mouth, Quinn, but I'm gay."

"No," He snaps back to his familiar state of defensiveness or usually offensiveness, "you want to do that to Roger, not me."

"So fucking what if I do?" I rage. "And it was all going to plan, let me tell you, until you stepped in front of us at that club and got him pissed off at you. And you were scared, don't deny it. You were scared of a gay man."

"I wasn't scared." He crosses his arms carelessly.

"Don't lie to me, you were fucking scared! I defended you, you know that? I stood up for you, for some idiotic reason that I can't remember right now, because I'm too fucking angry at you, Quinn. And then because of that, he thought you were gay, too."

He says nothing.

"So we went back to his apartment and it was actually really nice, and I'll spare you the painfully cute and homosexual details but we fell asleep together, and then I was forced to leave him which I feel absolutely shit about, but it because my best friend's multiple personalities were playing up. Yes, Quinn, Mary has _dissociative identity disorder, and you're not going to talk to anyone but me and Sam about that, alright? _She wasn't in control of herself or her actions and I can guarantee you that when she sees what she's done to you, she'll feel guilty. And she'll feel much guiltier if you're still an ass about it to her, even though her personal life does not affect you in the slightest, and you should keep your nose out of her fucking business, just before you start on her, like you have on me for the last third of my life."

My whispered rant is stopped whilst I regain my breath, and he stares at me for as long as he can bring himself to, then looks at the ceiling.

"I'm not gay." He says quietly.

"Is that seriously all you care about? Your reputation?"

"No." He looks at me once again. "I've been asked that a lot... Edilio," He settles for my name instead of a crude nickname, "but I'm not gay."

"That's totally fine, Quinn, and I'm not going to ridicule you for being straight. So lay off, man, yeah?"

The next word is no more than a whisper. "Okay."

This time I'm the one that breaks our eye contact.

"I'm sorry, okay?" His apology is sincere, the bite of his lip is barely noticeable, and the tremble of his hands is half-heartedly hidden in his pockets. "I know I'm an asshole. I'm working to stop it."

"Just don't say anything to Mary." I say tiredly. "And if she asks, don't make her think it's her fault, because it's not." I finally push past him and trudge downstairs.

"Where were you last night, Edilio?" Astrid asks me at last as I sit down next to her. Caine, Diana and Sam are in the kitchen, cleaning up blood and making breakfast and other tedious things. Mary is sleeping, and Quinn is probably sitting on a windowsill, contemplating the meaning of life, or maybe death.

"I went to Roger's place." I say shortly. Only now the guilt of leaving him without an explanation really settles in, drilling through my skull and shouting various offensive phrases at me, stabbing me repeatedly in the chest.

"Does he have a nice apartment?"

"I guess."

"Something's bothering you, Edilio."

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

"It doesn't matter, okay? It doesn't affect you."

"Listen." She places a hand on my shoulder and forces me to look at her. By now her hair is tied up in a neat blonde bun, make-up delicately framing each feature of her face. "I can tell when something's up and I can tell that it's happening right now. I know you'd probably tell Mary before telling me, but you don't want to make her worry, and I'm better than no one, so tell me."

"Sure." I sigh. "I think I've fucked things up."

"What things?"

"Right. We went to Roger's apartment and I was really nervous, like I always am around him, but then we started drinking vodka and then I told him about my father."

"Were you drunk?"

"No. I'd had, like, one shot."

"So you were sober."

"Completely. Minus one shot." I nod. "He asked me if I had nightmares and I told him that I did. Because I do. That's what I dream about; my father."

"Carry on," She urges gently.

"So he told me that nightmares are the reason he lives with Dekka. Which means he has them himself, right?"

She considers this like a quadratic equation – no, Astrid the Genius could solve one of those in about twenty seconds. "Probably, but it could be Dekka. Either way, he understands how bad nightmares are."

"Anyway," I continue, "I told him about my family, and he said that family sucked, and then –" Then he kissed me. But I want to keep that to myself. It was our moment. "Then he showed me his art studio, which wasn't really a studio since it had one unfinished canvas. And then we slept."

"That sounds really nice, Edilio," She smiles kindly. "So how have you fucked anything up?"

"I left when I read your texts," I let out a big breath at last, "and I know it was right to do, since Mary needed me, even though I should have left sooner because then nothing would have happened to Quinn –"

"That's not your fault," Astrid tells me seriously, "no one could have stopped that."

"I didn't wake him up to tell him I had to go. I didn't even write him a note or anything like that." I take my phone out of my pocket and hold it in my palm. "I haven't texted him. He hasn't texted me or phoned me or whatever."

"Maybe he's not even awake." She offers. "And if he is, he'll have forgiven you. Don't worry about it, okay?"

"But he said he wanted to wake up with me, Astrid," I reply, pathetically slumping back into the sofa.

"You're reading too much into this." She leans back and looks at me once again.

"He's confusing."

"To you, maybe. It reminds me of a really simple riddle."

"For God's sake –"

"Listen," She says for the second time. "What happens twice in a week, once in a year, but never in a thousand years?"

"I don't know, the birth of some kind of Asian insect?"

"The letter 'e'."

"Ah."

"I'll let you off with that one since English is your second language. But sometimes the answer is staring at you right in the face and it's so simple that the only considerable solution your mind can find is to over-complicate things."

"Okay, genius, what's the answer?"

"Talk to him, you douche!" Her enthusiastic suggestion fills me with dread. Making the first move is something I have been eternally uncomfortable with. Luckily, part of this dread disappears as Sam walks into the room with a plate of toast, and dumps it on the table, drained and exhausted. Caine and Diana follow, loudly yawning, holding hands, like any normal couple would do.

"What's up, man?" Sam asks me.

"Nothing much, thank God," I smile, reaching for some toast and stuffing it my mouth, realising I hadn't eaten in about twelve hours. "What's up with you?"

"I used the toaster for the first time in, like, two months."

"It's an applaudable achievement," Astrid smirks, tearing her toast up into neat pieces.

"Caine's joined a band," Diana announces, draping herself over her boyfriend's lap.

"That's cool, man." I nod to him. He says nothing, his eyes half-closed, but nods and smiles quickly in reply.

"Tell us about it, Caine," Astrid grins. "You could be a rock star. I've always said you look the part."

"We're alternative rock, I guess." He shrugs. "I mean, the only vocalist they had was a screamer before I joined, but they wanted someone to sing. And I can play guitar, which is awesome for them, because they only had a lead guitarist. We're called The Human Crew."

"What does the name mean?" Astrid asks.

"I'm not entirely sure, but the way I see it, we're a crew because there are five of us, and we're human because we all breathe and piss. Either that or we're actually really depressingly human, and that makes us a crew, because we have to fight together against other, bigger and better species. But I'm leaning toward the first one, to be honest."

"Who else is in the band?" I hear Quinn ask. He appears and takes his usual stance, leaning against the doorframe. He looks at me for a split second then back at Caine.

"The drummer is this guy called Orc –"

"Orc?" Sam chuckles. "Weird name."

"I know, brother, but I'm not going to be telling him that any time soon. The guy's fucking massive." He moves some hair from his face. "Then on bass we have, and you won't believe this, Sanjit Brattle-Chance."

"Brattle-Chance?" Astrid spits some butter. "Like, Todd and Jennifer Brattle-Chance, the most famous... people... couple... in the world?"

"Toddifer, that's what Sanjit called them." He grins. "Do you know how much publicity that'll get us? We'll have a fandom or something. The Humans. Or the Crew."

"Okay, carry on," Quinn prompts.

"There's a girl, Sanjit's girlfriend, on lead guitar. Her name is Lana or something."

"Lana who?" Quinn asks quickly.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"No. Lana who?"

"I don't know, dude," He curls one arm around Diana's shoulders, his hand absentmindedly tangling into her hair. "Um, I think her middle name was something from Lord Of The Rings."

"You're talking about Lana Arwen Lazar. She's Native American, yeah?"

"I think so."

"She doesn't have a boyfriend."

"She does, and he's fucking minted."

"No, she absolutely does not have a boyfriend, because that's what she told me when we went back to my house and had sex the other night."

Quinn's face is like stone. Caine flinches. "Oh, man, I'm sorry."

"You said there was a screamer, right?" Sam quickly continues the conversation.

"Drake Merwin."

Quinn leaves the room.

"Fuck," Sam says and abruptly, wordlessly follows him.

Caine looks around at us incredulously. "Did I say something wrong?"

"I've never heard the name before, man," I tell him.

"This is why I don't talk much," He huffs and closes his eyes, then Diana leans forward and kisses him and Astrid looks down at her toast and I awkwardly tap the screen of my phone with my thumb.

The crappy thing plays its tinny, familiar ringtone, and I unlock it to see what developments my social life has made. I have a text. It's from an unfamiliar number.

_7:29AM_

_this is dekka. me and brianna are outside sam and astrid's house. dont be freaked out! she knows astrid. meet us outside now_

I show the text to Astrid. She nods and swallows some toast before speaking. "Brianna and I were on the same athletics team a couple of years ago, if that's the right girl. Eighteen or nineteen, ginger, right? She's cool. A bit childish, but cool."

"I'll be back in a bit, then," I smile half-heartedly at her and avoid looking at Caine and Diana's mingling tongues as I pass them. Once I reach the front door, I begin to worry. Dekka looks like someone from a wrestling competition on a mildly calm day, if I remember her correctly. I dismiss this thought and leave the house.

"Hey!" A low voice, almost a growl, comes from opposite the road. "Come and talk to us, we won't bite your head off." Dekka yells. Brianna snickers beside her.

"Why are you here?" I rub my eyes as the sun challenges me from some specific distance away that only Astrid can remember, "It's half past seven in the morning."

"Then why did you leave my best friend at half past six?"

I groan tiredly, inwardly panicking. "Did Roger put you up to this?"

"You really think he's that kind of guy, Edilio?" Dekka shakes her head. "For fuck's sake, he trusted you enough to give you any kind of clue about himself. He showed you his artwork. He trusted you not to go running away from him. That's exactly what you did. My best friend is not someone who tells the tough black lesbian to go running around chasing after his boyfriends."

"I'm not his boyfriend," I say, since that is the only thing she got wrong.

"No, obviously not," She mutters. "Why did you leave?"

"Some shit happened with my own best friend, alright?" I say defensively. "I guess we have similar priorities, Dekka."

"Is Astrid okay?" Brianna pipes up, her voice sweet.

"Oh, she's fine." I reply. "I meant Mary."

"So you're Edilio, right?" She holds out a freckled arm to shake my hand.

"Yeah." I take her offer and shake her outstretched hand. "You're Brianna."

"Call me Breeze," She drops her arm.

"Why?"

"You don't wanna know." She grins. "Me and Dekka are, like, best friends now. Obviously Roger and Dekka are, like, best friends forever, but he doesn't like Kick-Ass, and you've gotta have at least one friend that likes Kick-Ass."

"Hey, it's really bright out here," I say, since I'd never heard of Kick-Ass before seeing Dekka's comics, "you should come inside."

Brianna, or Breeze, crosses the road and bounds into the house.

"Are you and her..." I begin.

Dekka looks at me, considers me. After a moment she says, "I don't know. She's bisexual, or so she says, but she's young. And she's been texting this kid called Computer Jack all fucking morning."

"Do you have nightmares, Dekka?"

"Excuse me?" She squints at me in disbelief. "Who the hell do you think you are, bursting into our lives like this? Shithead."

"No," I say hurriedly, "look. Roger told me that nightmares are the reason you live with him. So that means either you or him have them, right?"

She looks at me with no expression. "I don't dream." Then she sighs, her face gentle. "Sometimes he does. Sometimes they're really bad. I'm saying more than I should already. If he trusts you enough to tell you anything about himself, he will. Edilio, he's a strong person. He acts like this cocky dickhead but that's just a front. I met him in school. He was the nicest guy I knew. But that meant he was weak. Shit happened, it fucking ruined him, so he built these walls up and I think he needs to let them down. Like I said, maybe he'll tell you about this one day, if he trusts you. If he trusts you not to run away from him without at least an explanation, he'll tell you everything. But he doesn't trust very easily, you know? And you're not helping that right now. He told you he was paranoid about stuff, right? He wasn't lying. Roger only tells the truth, unless he lies for very good reasons."

She exhales again, shrugging and forming a hopeless expression on her face as she begins to walk across the road. She stops, turns to face me.

"Talk to him, Edilio. He needs someone like you."


	5. Chapter 5 - Scream

"So, why do they call you Breeze?" Diana repeats the question that still mildly interests me, although not enough to ask it myself once more.

"Um," Breeze smiles cockily, "well. I'm the fastest girl in my athletics team."

"That's not incorrect," Astrid muses, "but you know there's another reason, Brianna."

The young girl shrugs nonchalantly. "Whatever. I guess blondie'll tell you if I don't. I like dating."

"Let me clarify," says Astrid, "Brianna is known as Breeze because that is, supposedly, what is created by the speed she travels at from bed to bed. It's quite incorrect, however; a breeze doesn't describe a quick wind. A more apt word would be a gust, a hurricane, or perhaps a tornado -"

"You still do that thing, Genius." Brianna giggles. "Where you get all high and mighty, and use really clever words, that get longer the more you talk."

"Do I do that?" Astrid looks around innocently.

"You do, babe," Sam sighs, lazily grinning.

"Don't call me babe." She rolls her eyes.

"Why not?"

"Because, Sam, you won't get rewarded for it."

Brianna, or Breeze, coughs very loudly.

"Did Caine tell you his band has a gig tonight?" Diana looks around at us all.

"Are you my manager now?" Caine sighs.

"I'll be there," Sam says.

"Me too," I pipe up, contributing eventually to the conversation, reluctant to sit here, red-faced in Dekka's unfamiliar, intimidating presence.

"You remind me of an anime character." Dekka speaks for the first time since she introduced herself as "just Dekka, the friend".

"Me?" Caine glances around quickly, his hair flicking into Diana's face, who expertly dodges the onslaught with a small huff.

"Yeah." She nods, and a smile flickers onto her lips. "You just look really bored all the time. But you're not French, right?"

"No."

"And you don't slaughter really big, red, frightening but also slightly hilarious giants for a living?"

"I don't, no."

"And you're not gay, either?"

"Definitely not."

"Doesn't matter, then."

Caine nods slowly and raises an eyebrow. "So you like Kick-Ass?" He asks, turning to Breeze and nodding down at her shirt. I look down at it and realise the image on it is a face; a girl with purple hair and a mask obscuring the skin around her eyes, smirking.

"Oh my God, of course I do." Breeze gushes excitedly. "Hit-Girl is, like, my hero. Like, she's so badass. Isn't she, Dekka?"

"I guess." Dekka mutters, squinting and rubbing her forehead in tiredness. "Do you have any Tylenol?" She looks over at Astrid, irritated.

"There's some in the kitchen -" She answers.

"I'm sure Edilio can show me." She pushes herself away from her spot against the wall, and walks out of the room. Frowning, I follow her.

I find her leaning against the closed kitchen door. "So are you going to talk to him?"

"Wait, what?"

"I said, you deaf shit," She huffs slightly, digging her hands into the pockets of her jeans, "are you going to talk to Roger?"

"Um," My heartbeat begins to involuntarily quicken. "I guess." Dekka is someone I want to remain on the right side of. This morning is the first and only time I've had a proper conversation with her, but, in all honesty, she scares the shit out of me.

"Do you even care about him?" Her permanent frown deepens.

"Are you being serious?" I ask quietly. "I hardly know him - or you, but no offence."

"So you don't." She considers this, amusement passing through her eyes. It's lost when he closes them, yawning.

"I do." I say, because, although I don't understand it, although what I said is true and I hardly know him, and he's not giving me much of a chance to get to know him, and he probably will not ever tell me anything about himself, I'm still intrigued. I still feel the heavy guilt that has bombarded me in waves since this morning, I still feel an unexplainable tie to him that is leaving me wanting more. More of him.

"I care enough to want to get to know him," I say eventually, my eyes cast down at Dekka's shoes. Red Converse, falling apart, laced frayed, truly and unfashionably battered.

"That's new." She comments. "Right now then."

"What?"

"Do you need your ears checked, Edilio?" She shakes her head. "I swear to God. We'll get Breeze, which won't be a shame since she's probably talking bullshit about this Jack kid anyway, and we'll go back to my apartment, where I think Roger is abusing a wall with spray paints. Sound good?"

"I guess."

"Yeah, but what if I don't want to talk to him?"

His voice, the first thing I hear after he pauses some rowdy form of a rock song, isn't exactly encouraging. In fact, far from it. He sounds adamant. I, on the other hand, have already given up. I lean against the wall next to the door of Dekka and Roger's apartment and hit my head against it repeatedly and not very gently, until the pain is enough to distract me from my shameful nerves.

"Roger, you're being an asshole." Dekka mutters, although her voice is loud, since she promised me I'd hear her attempt at softening him, although I don't think her less-than-gentle technique is working.

"Am I?" Roger's voice ridicules her, raising slowly higher. "Because, Dekka, if you took a moment to look at this from my point of view, you'd realise I'm actually really pissed off that nothing, not even the smaller stuff, ever works out for me."

"Then why don't you try to make it work?" She reasons, her voice muffled behind the door.

"Because I'm trying not to get attached to him!" He shouts.

Dekka says nothing. Silence burns between them and into my mind when I realise this is me he's yelling about.

"I really like him, Dekka." He says lamely. I strain my ears to listen, as his voice drops. "And we both know how that works out."

"No, Roger," Dekka speaks again, her voice sharp, harsh, "what I know is that you're being really fucking petty. Grow some balls and talk to him. He'll give you a reason why he left - and anyway, this is pathetic, dude. You hardly even know him. Why does this matter?"

Again, the conversation, or more specifically, the argument drops. I hear no mutters, no murmurs or grunts of disagreement. All I hear, after a short moment, is: "You don't understand!"

A door slams.

Another few seconds pass and the front door clicks open. Dekka stands behind it. "I tried, man."

"I know. Thanks." She gives me a sympathetic look. "It's useless now anyway." I sulk.

The pity falls off her face and disapproval replaces it. "No. You haven't tried yet." She grabs my arm and pulls me into their apartment, then pushes me toward a door. "He's in there. Good luck." She stalks off, huffing.

"Thanks," I say weakly, and suddenly this is an unbelievably bad idea. Actually, it was never a good idea; how do you tell the person you like, who also likes you back, that you had to leave him because your best friend was on a murderous rampage? I think it's pretty much impossible, also I'll soon find out.

I knock on the door. The noise is barely audible under the music that begins to blast again from the other side, and I'm secretly and pretty desperately hoping that he doesn't hear me. But, of course, he does, and he responds with, "What the fuck do you want now?"

I open the door slightly and go into the room. Roger is facing a wall, black like everything else in the room, with a can of spray paint in his hand. The only colour in the room is his light blue jumper that looks a size too large, especially as he pushes the sleeves down past his elbows, and the white paint which is sprayed onto the wall to create a massive tick, accompanied by the words "just fuck it" underneath. No, I'm wrong on this one. Astrid has reminded me approximately twenty thousand times that white isn't a colour, but the absence of it. Whatever it is, anyway, I recognise it as a logo belonging to some brand I can't afford. I seriously doubt that their slogan actually contains the word "fuck", too; that's probably a personal touch, an ironic, artistic signature.

He chucks the can at a CD player on the floor. The careless music stutters and stops, and I hear a sigh before Roger speaks, his eyes on the new work of art.

"If you're here to have a go at me again, you can just fuck off. I don't want to hear it." He touches the highest part of the graffiti with his fingertips, rubbing the drying paint between them. "I've been rejected on my birthday again. It's nothing new."

"It's your birthday?" I ask gingerly.

He finally turns around. His hair is freshly washed, falling into his eyes, which look at me emptily. He doesn't bother to move it out of the way. In fact he doesn't bother to move at all. He stands in front of me in jeans, black, of course, and the jumper that covers all but his collarbones, even his hands, looking nothing but tired. It's like the roles have reversed. I am here to try, and he's already given up on me.

"Nice of you to visit," He says sourly, "we could even throw a birthday party."

"I'm sorry -"

"No." He looks away from me. "Don't start. I don't want an apology. I don't want your "I'm sorry, babe" bullshit because I know that's what it is: bullshit. I've heard it all before and I'm tired of it. So if you're here to spit some meaningless words at me and expect me to brush it all off, just turn around and leave, yeah?"

I open my mouth to reply but I realise that the only thing on the tip of my tongue is an apology, which is exactly what he's turning down, so I close it again.

"Did you like the song?" His hands finally find their way to his pockets, and some curiosity, although forced, is in his question, as he looks at me again.

"It was... loud." I reply quietly.

"I know. That's the point." He laughs at himself, a sad sound, no humour present. "Chinese Weed, by FIDLAR."

I eye him blankly.

"Skate punk."

"What?"

"Punk that you skate to, duh. Wasn't it obvious?"

"Okay."

"I didn't answer your question, did I?" He begins to walk closer to me. "Yes, it's my birthday. You didn't know, so I'm not expecting a present. But by this time next year the Kooks may have a new album out, so you can get me that. Or even a decent rock magazine. Nothing with Blood On The Dance Floor on the front. Or there will be blood."

"You didn't tell me it was your birthday," I say, and although I don't try to sound pathetic, I do. I sound like that one kid in class that didn't get a party invitation.

"I know I didn't," He walks past me to push the door shut, "I hate my birthday."

"Why?"

"You know what, I'm not sure if I prefer your questions or your one-worded answers." He leans against the door, yawning. "I hate my birthday, Edilio, because four years ago, when I turned eighteen, I came out to my mother and she chucked me out of the house. Fifteenth of August, 2009. That was the last time I ever saw my parents."

This time I force myself to reply properly. He's telling me more about himself than I know altogether. He deserves some proper words. "I shouldn't have asked you," I say, stunned. "That's terrible."

"I know it is," He nods, "but you had no idea. Anyway, what's more horrible is the fact that she told me to my face that I was dead to her. Gave me enough money for me to live on and told me to move out. Never wanted to see me again. Worst birthday present I've ever had, to be honest."  
"Family suck," I quietly echo his words from last night.

"How did you remember that?" He frowns.

"I just remember important things," I shrug, "small details."

"Well, here's other small detail for you," He offers, "my last name is Bandinelli. And that's why I don't use it, because it belongs to my family. So don't call me Roger Bandinelli, alright? Call me anything but Roger Bandinelli. Just call me Roger. Call me Just Roger."

"I won't call you that," I tell him gently. I consider reaching for his hand but I then realise that he's probably still mad at me for leaving this morning, and I now see why. Roger knows his birthday as a day of rejection. He associates it with people not wanting him. I haven't helped the matter.  
"You said you don't want an apology, right?" I begin, my hands curling around each other as he says nothing, but stares at me, already drained. "Well, I'm sorry anyway. But I'm here to give you an explanation."

"Fantastic," He mutters, although his tone isn't poisonous. "Go on."

"I was woken up this morning by a text from Astrid. There were seven in total. She told me to go straight to her and her boyfriend Sam's house, because something had happened to Mary, my best friend."

"Uh huh."

"So I left straight away."

"I know."

"And I didn't have time to leave a note or anything."

"Just carry on, Edilio."

"I got there and Mary was..." My voice falters. At last, the stress of being forced so close to the possibility of death by my best friend catches up with me. I turn away from Roger and gaze at the can of spray paint on the floor. "Mary's not... she has multiple personalities."

"Shit," Roger's eyes widen behind the sleeve he raises to his mouth. "I didn't think there was something - not like that -"

"Just let me finish." I close my eyes impatiently. "She was in the kitchen when I got there. She had a knife and she..." I make a gesture with my hand, against my neck. "She was going to. I calmed her down but then Quinn, of all people, grabbed her and, well, it ended up with his arm spurting blood and Mary passing out. In the end I saved no one. Quinn still got his arm sliced open and Mary's still at Sam and Astrid's house in bed, drained by the whole ordeal."

He steps away from the door and wraps his arms around me, one hand twisting into my hair. I bury my head in his shoulder and place my arms around his waist loosely. No words are spoken, but I realise I don't need him to pretend that everything is okay, because it isn't. All I need is to be held, and that's what he does. In situations like these, the only people that know what to do are the people that have needed the comfort before. Sometimes people don't need words. Sometimes there are no words that anyone else can say, they just need that person to... well, not say them.  
I pull away from him to wipe the tears that are forming, little drops of guilt on my eyelashes. "I'm being really stupid," I mutter, "I shouldn't be like this. You've probably had a really crap morning thanks to me, and I'm the one standing here with tears in my fucking eyes."

"No," He moves my hands away from my face and uses the edge of his sleeve to wipe it instead. "Every single one of my birthdays is crap. I was dreading waking up alone, in all honesty. But I don't think it'll be too bad a day if I spend it with you."

At last that gives me something to smile about.

"I don't cry," He continues, "I haven't since my eighteenth. If I did, I'd be making floods. I'm pretty cold with a lot of people. I'm careless and I'm inconsiderate. I'm actually a really shitty person."

"Bullshit."

"Truth. My past isn't exactly a dreamworld, so I don't dwell on it. I live in the present and take each day as it comes. The most common way I get hurt is from falling off my skateboard." The only movement he makes now is a nonchalant shrug. "Don't expect any long anecdotes about my past. Since it's only the present I really give a shit about, I'd rather you be a part of that."

"I'll stick around, then."

He grins. I breathe out, a sigh of relief I wasn't aware of holding in. "Good. Now wipe those tears away or I'll give you something else to cry about."

"Excuse me?"

"I think you heard." His eyes drop to the neckline of my shirt - old and red, plain with no design - and his fingers trace it, playing distractedly with the material. For a moment he says nothing, but then: "Why didn't you wake me up this morning, Edilio? Before you left?"

The answer is something that embarrasses me. I decide to wait and see how far he'll go to squeeze it out of me.

"Really? You're giving me the silent treatment?" He sighs. "It's a simple question. Don't I at least deserve an answer?"

"You'll laugh at me," I murmur, looking down.

"Why would I laugh at you?" He asks, lifting my head with his hand, his thumb on my chin. "Do you really think I'm that cruel?"

"I think you're a lot of things." I fight to control my voice and keep calm, although from the excitement in his eyes I can tell that he sees my struggle.  
"Oh, give the act up, Edilio." With each word he begins to push me closer to the wall, one hand on my waist. "If you can't keep up, that's absolutely fine. Just answer my question and then you won't have to keep yourself under control."

My back presses gently into the wall, and I'm saved from thinking of a witty retort by his lips on mine. He kisses me tenderly, his mouth slightly bruised, and somewhere in the back of my mind, where apparently an ounce of control still exists, I think that he must have been biting them earlier. The thought shatters as soon as he pulls away from me and his concentration as well as his lips move to my neck. With each kiss, and each moment between them shortening, another shard of sense is destroyed and before long I have one arm over his shoulder, my nails lightly digging into the skin of his back.

Suddenly he stops. He stands straight and looks at me, his eyes bright even through the dimness of the room. "Are you going to answer me now?" His voice is low and quiet, his breathing slightly uneven. I'm alerted by small things, like his hand on the small of my back, and the way he leaves his lips slightly apart after speaking. "Have I done enough to deserve an answer?"

"I didn't want to wake you because you looked really good in your sleep, okay?" I blurt, louder than I'd intended, but Roger's mouth curves into a smile once more and I'm pretty sure that I've given him the right answer.

"I looked good?" He teases, reaching up to twist some strands of my hair between his fingers. "So you must have been staring."

"I wasn't staring -"

"Was it the idea of me tossing and turning, sweaty, in a bed with you that's got you so entertained, then?"

"No," I say slowly, but thought of that is certainly a nice one.

"You sound like a liar," He says, an observation more than an accusation.

"That's a bit harsh," I raise an eyebrow.

"But not untrue?"

I don't reply.

"And anyway," He continues, "it wouldn't happen."

Tilting my head to one side slightly, I ask, "Why not?"

"Because," He begins quietly, "I'd be the one on top. No offence, Edilio, but do you really think you could cope with topping?"

"What are you saying?" I push him a few inches away, resting my head against the wall and eyeing him suspiciously. "Am I not good enough for you?"

"I'm not saying that. What I'm saying," He pauses to look down at me, scanning each part of my body before returning his eyes to mine, "is that if I had you underneath me, I wouldn't give you much of an opportunity to do anything other than lie back and enjoy."

For the first time, I'm truly thankful for the lack of light. If embarrassment was a colour, then it would definitely be red, and the picture on it's Wikipedia page would be my face, flushing like a tomato on one of those boiling Honduran summer afternoons I'm glad to be rid of.

Roger is the only person ever to render me speechless. Other than Astrid, of course, at that point of the conversation where you cannot say anything because you honestly don't know what the hell she's talking about, because her brain has become a thesaurus.

"Anyway," he says loudly, and I snap out of my trance of shame at myself, "You said I looked good. So I'm going to take that as a compliment."

If I don't get words out of my mouth now I never will. "You keep going back to that. Are you just going to remember it forever?" I attempt to tease him. "I shouldn't have said it."

"Well, you obviously think it's true, otherwise you wouldn't have said it in the first place."

"And your point is?"

"Would I still look good if I took this off?" He asks me, pulling gently at the neck of his jumper. "It's getting a bit hot."

"I guess you would," I suppress a yell of encouragement.

"Do you think I'd look better if you took it off for me?"

"I don't know," My line of vision follows his hand, to the skin he bares below his collar bones. "I won't know unless I try."

I reach out and take his hand with mine, prising his fingers away from the soft wool of his jumper, and pull him towards me. Surprisingly, he allows me to do this, so I use the opportunity to kiss him, more forcefully than before, and again he complies. When my desperation takes over and I part his lips with mine, he meets my tongue with his, and I pull him even closer to me, grasping his jumper until I realise that the goddamn piece of clothing is the reason he's being so submissive. My hands slide under it, my fingers tracing his sides, the slight curve of his waist, noting the warmth and smoothness of his skin in my mind, even a slight scar on his left hip.

When my hand stays on the scar, he moves my hand away, tense.

I break away from him, making nervous eye contact, in case this mark is a sensitive topic. Instead he collects all the bravado he had before and says, "Didn't anyone ever teach you not to be so hesitant?"

I relax again, and he smiles with only one side of his mouth raised, slightly smug. The cockiness suits him. After a fleeting moment of serenity, where I'm unsure whether or not to move or speak, he rolls his eyes.

"You're boring. Am I going to have to do all the work here?" He asks with a small sigh, pulling his jumper over his head and throwing it carelessly on the floor.

I barely get a chance to look at him before he kisses me with none of the hesitance he accused me of having, his body pressing me back into the wall, his lips rough against mine. He knots the fingers of one hand into my hair, yanking my head up closer to his, as if he craves me. I won't deny that the dominance is attractive, the idea that he actually wants me, wants to kiss me and touch me and God knows what else.

It doesn't take long before his fingers find the hem of my shirt, his hands dangerously low, and he leans away from me to lift it up, sliding it over my body, down my arms, before letting it drop at our feet. "See?" He murmurs quickly, "good things come from being forward."

"Good things?" I take the opportunity he gives me to speak. "Why are you giving me good things, if I'm the one that's been a right asshole?"

His hands curl around the back of my neck, unsure where to rest. He looks at me, confusion in his wide eyes. "Edilio, are you saying you want to be punished?"

"Roger, that's exactly what I'm saying."

"Then it's not a punishment, is it?"

His tone isn't flirtatious. He seems uncertain, and I realise that I've made a mistake as he looks away and untangles himself slightly from me.

"I'm sorry," I say for the third time since setting foot in Roger's room. "I didn't mean to sound so -"

"Don't apologise," He says once again, "you were just trying to keep up, weren't you?"

I shrink against the wall and shrug. Speaking again will probably fuck things up with him, something I've already done once. So, instead, as he looks away, I scan his body quickly with my eyes. That is also a mistake. Every time I can't have him, I just end up wanting more. The secretive skater punk with an athletic body and a dejected expression that could melt a heart of stone. What a catch.

"I'm sorry," He repeats the words used too many times, "I'm sorry for leading you on like this. Here's another thing I'll let you know about me: I'm kind of terrible with commitment, but also with lack of it."

"What do you mean?"

"I know I just seem like a really horny guy."

I won't deny that. "Um, sometimes."

"Well, I'm not." The apprehensive, half-joking look I give him crinkles the sides of my eyes. "Okay, maybe a bit. But I'm not going to use you as a good fuck and then throw you away."

"I don't understand." I say reluctantly.

"What I'm saying is," He stops, lets out a long sigh, and moves some of the dark hair that has fallen into my eyes. "I like you, Edilio. And I mean that as more than just sex. I don't know what exactly it means, I'm not used to all this emotional bullshit, but I know that. Do you know how being the victim of a one-night stand feels?"

I shake my head, surprised by the emotional ordeal that he now presents. Roger's change in dynamic is something I'd expect from Mary. No, that's not right, Mary's insane. Roger is a little less complex, albeit fantastically confusing.

"It feels like complete crap. So I think I want to get to know you first, before that happens, if it does, so then I can lie on the floor and smoke some weed or something and try to work out why you fucked me and went the next morning, leaving a badge saying "Great job! You're good with your hands!" or something."

"You really think I'd do that?" I ask him in a small voice.

He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes soft, flickering, but his lips pressed together stubbornly. The effect is like an armour, his cockiness hiding a weakness that he seems only to show a select few people, if any at all. I don't know if he expects me to break through it, but with every small glance of his past that I get, every time he lets his guard down enough for me to peer over it and into how the hell his mind must work, I get more determined to do just that.

"No," He says finally, "I just don't want it to happen."

I push myself away from the wall and take his hand loosely in mine. "It's not going to happen."

"Good. Anyway," He drops my hand and crosses his arms over his chest. "You're deluded if you think you're actually going to top me."

"God, it's like you have no faith in me at all."

"I bet you ten dollars you'll be underneath me, begging for mercy."

"Fine." I stick my hand out and he shakes it.

"So, where are you taking me?"

"What?"

"We're celebrating." He says simply. "Where are you taking me?"

"But you don't celebrate your birthday," I point out reluctantly.

"I know I don't," He nods triumphantly, "but it's National Relaxation Day."

"Why would you go out and do something for National Relaxation Day? That's totally against the point of the holiday."

"Aren't I allowed to rebel?" He bends over to grab his jumper, throwing my shirt to me in an arch at the same time. "Why shouldn't we celebrate National Relaxation Day doing something fun?"

"Because it is a holiday dedicated to relaxation."

"You're not fun at all, Edilio," He says, staring at the jumper in contemplation. He then chucks it to the other side of the room, and instead walks to his bed, picks up a dark blue shirt and pulls it over his head.

"Is blue your favourite colour or something?" I ask him.

"No." He shakes his head. "It's obviously black, because, you know, I'm really emo and shit."

"I'll take you to see Caine's band tonight, then," I grin.

He shrugs. "I don't know who this Caine is, but you're obviously on first name terms with him, which increases my chances of getting free merchandise and alcohol, so I'm in."

-

"Why are you wearing my shirt?"

"Why are you wearing my frown?" Roger and Dekka nudge each other as they joke, leaning carelessly against the bar behind us. He picks at her shirt, a green polo shirt that looks shapeless and about two sizes big for her, apparently belonging to Roger.

"Oh my God, get your own retorts." He says scathingly, kicking her in the shin.

"Oh my God, stop talking like a fucking gaylord."

"Are you fucking kidding? You are literally the gayest person I know."

"Do you remember how disappointed you were last night when you found out that National Men's Grooming Day is on August the fifteenth of next year, not this one?"

"Yes." He nods. "I was devastated."

Dekka grins. "Exactly. That's why you're the gaylord in our friendship."

"Oh my God, don't call me a gaylord!"

"Oh my God, stop saying the phrase that makes you sound like a gaylord, then!"

"Are you two like this all the time?" Astrid, who stands on one side of me, leans over to look at Roger, on my other side.  
"Every day," Roger sighs.

"I think you're hilarious," says Mary. She gives a friendly smile and crosses her arms gently, hugging her waist as she paces slowly in front of us.  
"Thank you very much," Roger replies. "Homosexuality is a special ability."

"And you wear it like a flashing badge," Dekka mutters. "Like a disease that some old pensioner displays as his pride and joy."

"Well," Roger turns rather spontaneously to look at me, "if it's a disease then I can be your medicine."

"Gross," Dekka cringes away from her best friend.

For the third night in a row I find myself in a club. This one, however, is a different club. The Power Plant has a reputation for being full of greasy emos wearing litres of eyeliner and sweating vodka. It's apparently an "indie club", or something like that, and Caine's new band must appeal to pubescent teenagers like these, mulling at the other end of the bar, laughing and punching each other playfully and fidgeting impatiently around the stage.  
Before waiting that long, we see Sam, Quinn and Diana at the door, pointing to the microphone and explaining to the bouncer that "Caine has told us all we get cheap tickets". He eventually shrugs and they hand over some money, then make their way over to us.

They huddle around us as more teenagers take up space at the bar, attempting to bribe the barman for alcohol with no less than sexual favours.  
"Hey, dude," Sam greets me as he twists his arm around Astrid's waist.

"Hey, man." I reply, before nodding at Diana. I glance at Quinn, who offers half a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He hastily pulls his sleeve down to cover the bandage on his arm.

Sam looks at Roger and Dekka, two strangers to him, and probably intimidating as hell. "Uh, nice to meet you."

Roger puts his arm out and Sam shakes his hand. Dekka waves with three fingers, raising her eyebrows slightly to show that he has actually seen him, but can't be assed to move.

"You're Roger, right?" Sam asks him.

"I am." His arm falls back to his side. "And since Edilio's name isn't Dude, your name isn't Man. Glad we've eradicated that ridiculous option. So, what's your name?"

"My name is Sam. Sam Temple. I'm Caine's brother, and I don't mind rock music, so I'm here."

"Dekka Talent," Dekka leans over to look at him, "and I came here because I was promised cheap beer and decent music."

Diana says her name next, introducing herself. "I'm Caine's boyfriend, so I don't really have a choice. I kind of have to be here."

Dekka's gaze falls on Quinn. Neither person says anything, Dekka looking expectantly at Quinn, who is quaking in his boots - well, Vans sneakers.  
"You already know me, that's for sure," Roger says cheerily to Quinn. He turns to look at Dekka. "This is Quinn. I met him last night when he was being a dick to Edilio, here, but let's not bring that up."

"You just brought it up." Quinn growls, his voice rough.

"I didn't bring it up as such," Roger replies smoothly, "I was just filling Dekka in on who you are."

Sam coughs very loudly.

"I don't want to be here," Quinn looks around at us all. "But I was dragged because we're all being supportive and friendly."

Yes, Quinn Gaither, the most supportive and friendly man on the planet.

"I'm here because Edilio invited me," Roger grins enthusiastically. "And because we're celebrating."

"Celebrating what?" Astrid asks suspiciously.

"National Relaxation Day."

"It's also Victory Over Japan Day," Dekka pumps a fist in the air mockingly. "Which means we own all the anime."

"If you were to check your facts, you'd see that's not strictly true." Astrid pouts. "We don't own Japanese culture. You can't own Japanese culture. If you act like you do, you're probably a massive asshole."

"Dude, calm the fuck down." Dekka's eyes are wide. "I was making a joke."

"Don't make jokes, then."

Roger is about to cut in and stop the girls from arguing, but a squeak from an amplifier interrupts him. The band now stands on the stage, tapping their microphones, tuning their guitars.

Caine has his head low at the front, a red beanie hat pulled over the top of his head, dark brown hair escaping from it, hanging past his shoulders. He has a shirt with a bizarre design, like a five-year-old's creation on MS Paint. I can make out a word: Marmozets. I take a wild guess and decide that they're a band. He fiddles quietly with the pegs of his guitar, a pick held between his teeth.

The drummer is louder, crashing on cymbals with all his weight, which, in the politest way, is quite a lot. The drumkit manages to obscure most of him, which is a bit of an achievement.

The only girl in the band has a guitar, too, hanging from a strap around her neck as she jabs some buttons on her amp. Her jeans are the same colour as Caine's beanie, her hoodie black like his jeans, the hood of it draped over her head, hiding most of her face.

The bassist, who I remember as a child of the famous Todd and Jennifer, is the only member of the band with a wide smile plastered on his face. He walks over to the guitarist, presses one button on her amp, and grins even more, laughing. She huffs, although I see her chuckle at her own mistake.

The only person without an instrument is a man to the side of Caine, his arms and neck covered in tattoos, his hair viciously blond, his grin reminiscent of a shark as he smiles at the fans before him. He walks over to them, a cocky swagger, laughing like a maniac.

Caine Soren, Charles Merriman, Lana Arwen Lazar, Sanjit Brattle-Chance and Drake Merwin. The Human Crew.

"They are basically like agents of Satan with really awesome haircuts." Dekka states.

"Isn't that a quote from Jennifer's Body?" Roger frowns.

"Does this piece of shit work?" Lana says into her microphone. "Yes. Okay, cool. Er. Well. Thanks for bothering to come here tonight, that's really awesome. I guess we love you all. Fuck it, I don't know what to say." She turns to look at Sanjit. "You do this shit, man."

"Yeah," Quinn mutters loudly, "because the boyfriend always knows what to do."

Sanjit continues to laugh, and steps in front of Lana's microphone. "Hey everyone." This earns a round of applause from the scattering of fans. "We're really grateful that you could all make it out tonight, especially since this is a different kind of gig to what we usually do. It's great, though, isn't it? We're really happy that you guys are part of this "adapt and change" thing."

Drake blows on his microphone and the feedback drills into our ears. "Sanjit said it," His voice is low and rough. "We're adapting and changing. So give a warm fucking welcome to our new vocalist or whatever the hell, Caine Soren."

We clap supportively. Diana and Sam shout enthusiastically.

"I don't know if you guys heard about our last singer." Lana says. "Uh, I don't know what to say, but, well, Panda had to leave for personal reasons."  
"But who gives a shit, right?" Drake grins. "We've got a new singer, and he plays guitar, which Panda didn't. So this is all really awesome. But the thing is, Caine doesn't know our songs, the dickhead. So we're going to play you guys a cover to start off." He squints past the lights that shine onto the small stage. "Fuck it, I'm only in a verse of this song. I'm getting a drink." He jumps off the stage and some teenage girls start screaming excitedly. I recognise one as Breeze, giggling with an Asian girl around the same age as her.

"Whatever," Lana sulks, "this is Bite My Tongue, uh, by You Me At Six and Oli Sykes." She wastes no time and starts playing an insistent repetition of notes.

_I hate to break it to you but_  
_You're just a lonely star_

Caine's voice is nothing I expected from him. He spits the words out as if he is arguing with the microphone. He puts both hands on the microphone, his fingers curling around it.

_I try to bring you down but_  
_A level isn't good enough_

The rest of the band kicks in, the drummer playing a moderately easy rhythm and the bassist mirroring the guitar, an octave lower. Caine starts playing some chords on the guitar. Lana starts singing along, a quiet harmony. It's not like she's unsure of herself, more that she simply doesn't want the attention of being a singer.

_I may be proud, but at least I'm proud of something_  
_You've taken pride in becoming nothing_

From the corner of my eye I see Sam biting his thumbnail, a habit similar to his brother's. His eyes are locked on the stage, breathing deeply. Caine's voice is passionate, like he's written the lyrics himself. I start to wonder what the words mean to them.

Once the band hits the chorus, the fans at the front start jumping and headbanging, yelling along with the lyrics, but Caine takes no notice as the instruments explode into a song of anger.

My attention is drawn to Drake as I realise he's no more than a metre from Quinn. All I know is that this could get messy. Why? I have no fucking clue.  
He leans across the bar and finds a bottle of vodka, unscrews the top of it and drinks about quarter of the bottle. "Hardcore," Quinn says, careful to keep his voice low, so that Drake doesn't hear him. How the hell do they know each other? Quinn's a fool but surely he's not stupid enough to associate himself with someone who drinks vodka like water, or maybe piss, considering the guy looks tough enough to be into that really disturbing kind of shit. With the amount of tattoos he has - naked girls; hands making obscene gestures; the word "fuck" in very big writing on his left forearm - I'm not really surprised that he can't afford his own alcohol.

_I wanna hate every part of you in me_  
_I can't hate the ones who made me_

The aggression in Caine's voice distracts me. The song feels so personal when he sings it that I can't help but think that he must be singing about someone, even though the song isn't his.

"Hey," Roger leans over to shout in my ear, "why do Sam and Caine have different surnames?"

Apparently I'm not the only one that is thinking this, then. Once Roger asks his question, it clicks into place. Caine sings about his mother.  
"Really long story," I reply loudly.

"Every story involving parents is long." He states.

"True."

By the time I look back at Drake, he's drained another few mouthfuls of the bottle and is heading over to the stage again. His shirt is a thin material, and through it I can see another tattoo, an illusion of his skin ripping apart, a mural of gore and bones and ragged skin.

He must be insane.

I watch him watch, bouncing on his feet through the collection of fans. He pauses to take a picture with one of them, holding his middle finger up to the camera like the large tattoo on his neck. The girl looks no more than fourteen, but I suppose nothing fazes Drake.

He jumps back onto the stage, nods at Sanjit who, in all honesty, isn't doing much, and raises an arm in Caine's direction, signalling a cheer from the crowd. Caine, totally immersed in the song, takes no notice.

Drake takes his microphone off its stand and starts head-banging to Orc's beat, preparing. Caine finishes his repeated chorus and steps back, raising his head and introducing himself back into the world. He looks over at us, shrugs, looks at the girls, and flashes a confident smile at them. I'm pretty sure one passes out.

When Drake starts screaming it's enough to make the floors creak.

_Just forget what you've learned_  
_Just forget what you've heard_  
_The truth just confirmed_  
_I can't bear the sight of you anymore_

His voice is a blast of psychotic anger, like fireworks that weren't meant to explode, shocking colours streaking against pitch black sky, the smoke left over attacking his throat, creating a vicious growl. Caine's anger is directed towards his parents. Drake seems pissed off by the whole world and everything it contains. He's terrifying.

He kills another four lines before jumping off the stage once more, leaving Caine, who looks scared enough to shit his pants, the vocal role again. When I notice that Drake is heading straight for us, I can sympathise.

He grabs Quinn's shoulder without hesitation and swing him around.

"Remember me, you asshole?"

The last time I saw Quinn in fear was... well, this morning, when I started whisper-shouting in his face. But this isn't fear. This is on a whole new level. Quinn's face is blank, the whites of his eyes exposed. He doesn't move an inch.

"I've burst back into your life to finally give you what you deserve." Drake yells over the music, seething with twisted excitement. Insanity. "Say something, you fucking wimp."

Quinn's lips part but no sound escapes them. Sam moves forward to step between them, but Astrid yanks him back by the arm, her face half-stern, half-scared.

"Fine," Drake grins, "if you're not going to do anything with your mouth, I'll move it for you."

It's idiotic of Astrid, perhaps, not to let her boyfriend intervene. This is my second thought as Drake's fist slams into Quinn's jaw, knocking him over.

My first thought: wow, I actually feel really sorry for Quinn Gaither.

The band stops playing abruptly, the song brought to a close by a crash of Orc's cymbal, last to catch on. Lana leaps from the stage, rushing towards us.

"What the fucking hell was that?" She screams in Drake's face. In response, his hand flies across hers.

Lana hardly flinches.

Her head jerks to the side, of course, from the impact of the slap, but her body stays in the same tense position, and when she looks back at Drake, her eyes are like flames, ready to attack the bitterly cold, icy glaze to his.

"You move the fuck out of my way," Drake spits, "who the hell do you think you are?"

She takes a deep breath and says, "I'm Lana Arwen Lazar."

He raises one side of his mouth in some kind of disgusting smile. "You're a girl."

"How dare -"

"Hey," Roger pushes himself away from the bar and sticks an arm between Drake and Lana. "Don't." He says to her firmly.

"Piss off, I can take care of myself," Lana mutters.

"Yeah, I can tell," Roger replies calmly, "but you're one of few that can do that, so I think it's best we split this up."

"Let me beat the shit out of these dicks, both of them!" Drake hisses, his fists raised.

"Beating the shit out of a dick sounds like a very bad masturbation technique," Roger smiles politely, and punches Drake in the stomach as if it takes no more effort than picking up a paintbrush. "You may do yourself some damage. I suggest you see a doctor."

And with that, Roger swiftly leaves the club.

We all follow him out like a herd, Dekka grinning more than I've ever seen her grin, or in fact show any expression. Sam and Lana help Quinn, face already swelling, to his feet. He brushes them away and walks quickly out, not even pausing to look at Drake, who is doubled over, consoled by only the most passionate fans.

I didn't realise how quiet our little spat had made the room until I walk out into the loud, nervous chatter outside. Roger spots me and gives me a reproachful look. I head straight over to him.

"I can't believe I just fucking did that."

"You were the only one that had the balls to do it," I reply.

"No, Edilio," He places a hand on his forehead, "you don't get it. I've heard stuff about Drake Merwin. He's fucking insane. Clinically insane."  
"You think Panda just left the band?" Dekka says from behind me. "No way, I don't believe a word of that shit. Apparently he's dead."

"As in..." I begin hastily.

"As in Drake Merwin fucking killed him."

"But that's just a rumour," Roger jumps in quickly, noting my alarmed expression.

Our conversation ends when Quinn, head down, walks up to us.

"Thanks." He murmurs quietly.

"Thanks?" Roger repeats. "I just saved your sorry ass back there and all I get is one word?"

Quinn looks up, takes a shaky breath and raises his fingertips to his bruising chin. "Thank you," He says, "for saving my sorry ass back there."

"Oh, don't fucking mock me."

"Are you kidding? I'm trying to thank you!" Quinn shouts. "I'm making an effort to thank you, you fucking faggot -"

"Excuse me?" Roger cuts across, his voice cold. "Dude, Drake Merwin was about to beat the shit, possibly the life out of you. You know who he is. I know who he is. And I really, really don't want to get to know him better. But now he won't be after you, he'll be after me. Do you realise what I just risked for you, man?"

"Yeah," Quinn says, "yeah, I do."

"So just lay off your homophobic shit, yeah? It doesn't make you cool. It's not going to get you girls."

"Okay." Quinn whispers.

"I might be in really big, really fucking bad shit with this psycho," Roger continues, beginning to turn away, "all for the sake of your life. So don't make me question whether it was worth it."


End file.
